Splintered Prophecy
by ruth7019
Summary: Sequel to What's Owed. The family Harry, Draco, and Snape created is still under threat following the Final Battle. As they struggle to maintain their bonds with friends and with each other, a new danger arises on the hunt for weapons so secret and evil, no one believes they exist. Rated 'M' for violence and adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **Splintered Prophecy**

 **Malfoy Manor, Wiltshire, June 1997 (5)** ** _…4:58 a.m._**

 _Years later, after his sleek, pale hair turned brittle and gray, and the left side of his face sagged like melted putty, Lucius Malfoy thought often about the night of the final battle at Hogwarts_ _._

 _When the giants charged out of the forest, he had known the battle was at an end. And when Adrian Pucey appeared, announcing that he was there to bring him back to Lord Voldemort, he had known that his time within the Dark Lord's inner circle was at an end._

 _After killing Pucey, Lucius Disapparated to Malfoy Manor. He didn't stay long, assuming that once the battle ended the Department of Magical Law Enforcement would search known Death Eater haunts, but he had to collect himself, had to consider where to go after leaving Wiltshire. He quickly decided against leaving the country—which might have been the more rational choice, but he knew that once he assembled what was left of the Dark Lord's followers, location would prove important._

 _Looking out the window of what used to be his bedroom (before Lord Voldemort claimed it as his own last summer), he took in the estate's rolling lawns. The waning moonlight illuminated their ragged, neglected state._

 _While hardly a sentimental man, Lucius found himself picturing the grounds as they had been in his youth, filled with partygoers for secret gatherings marking the Dark Lord's rise. Gliding among the guests, as if holding court, his father, Abraxas. Dressed all in white, the elder Malfoy resembled the peacocks he'd shipped in from India, brashly defying the ban that the International Trading Standards Body had imposed on importing non-native creatures._

 _Similar parties heralded Lucius and Narcissa's engagement, then Draco's birth. Lucius's lips tightened at the thought of how much his life had changed._

 _A year ago, he possessed a pristine home, a dutiful wife, and son, and a purpose: helping the Dark Lord conquer the wizarding world. Now he had nothing. Now, he had to abandon his family's lands, his wife was dead, and his son had inexplicably, and stupidly, tied himself to Severus Snape and Harry Potter—Harry Potter, who in having destroyed the Dark Lord, likely believed he had also destroyed the last hope of restoring the wizarding world to its former Pure-bloods-only glory._

 _But Potter and his ilk were in for a shock. Having already lost so much, Lucius refused to squander the chance for a wizarding world free of witches and wizards like Potter and Hermione Granger. Half-bloods and Mudbloods running riot, muddying the magical blood pool? No._

 _But to ensure this Pure-bloods-only Utopia, he would need help. While he was certain that he had not been the only one to flee the battle upon realizing it was lost, he needed to find out how many of his comrades had done the same. He also needed a way to contact them without being detected. Without the Dark Lord, the Dark Marks were useless, but Lucius had an idea of how to communicate with those on the run and even those that had been jailed. First, he had to speak with an old connection._

 _In the meantime, he'd decided on a meeting place: Little Hangleton. While it was certainly on the radar as a former Death Eater site, Lucius thought it unlikely to draw much attention, especially if his contact at the Ministry could effectively divert the DMLE's gaze. He'd have to work quickly, though. He wanted a crew in place before Hogwarts shuttered for the summer. He also wanted eyes on the school long before that. After some thought, he knew who to recruit for that job, assuming the boy was still alive._

 _Because there would be so few of them in the beginning, to increase their numbers, he resigned himself to the fact that he would have to look outside Britain, most likely Eastern Europe._

 _Isolated clusters of dark witches and wizards in that part of the world had rarely involved themselves in matters beyond their own borders, primarily because they viewed the Dark Lord's obsession with a boy wizard as folly. They also believed that he had no real desire for a Pure-bloods-only wizarding world. In their opinion, he simply wanted to elevate himself by standing on the backs of others. They believed that were he to vanquish Potter, he would then turn on Pure-bloods, treating them no better than he had Mudbloods and Half-bloods, because once the undesirables were eliminated, who was left?_

 _Some say his true motives came to light during his time in Albania where rumors regarding his pursuit of eternal life took root. After a time, whispers began circulating about how he had succeeded at squirreling away bits of his soul to resurrect him should he ever come close to death again._

 _Those same whispers spread west to Britain but were largely ignored by the Ministry along with those that had more than a middling knowledge of the Dark Arts. The Dark Lord's closest associates dismissed the talk as well. No one, it seemed, wanted to believe that he would resort to the level of depravity required for such a deed._

 _Lucius had had no problem entertaining the thought of the Dark Lord splitting his soul to gain immortality because he had never believed it. He still didn't. Then, as now, he thought it a bit of worthless, distracting gossip cooked up by the Dark Lord's enemies. Then, as now, he had neither the time nor the inclination to consider it: the Dark Lord was dead and he was not coming back, and once word of his demise reached the Eastern Europeans, Lucius aimed to point out the power Potter possessed and how dangerous it would be for_ all _wizardkind if the boy were not brought to heel._

 _After filling a trunk with clothes and other necessities, Lucius shrunk it and tucked it into his robes' pocket. He then left the house to make his way across the grounds to the owlery. His eagle owl, Lincoln, flew to him when he called. Lucius attached a tiny roll of parchment to the owl's foot, then said, "Barnabas."_

 _After Lincoln took flight, Lucius watched the sky until tinges of pinks, golds, and blues feathered along its eastern edge._

 _Time to go._

 _When he Disapparated, he did something he hadn't done since his bloodless old governor, Percival Graves, had begun teaching him to Apparate: he closed his eyes—avoiding a last glimpse of his childhood home as he spun on his heel._

*SP


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **Riddle House, Little Hangleton, Lancashire, July 1997 (4)**

"It's been weeks."

A stony silence followed Malcolm's words.

"When are we going after them? They'll be leaving school before long." An icy glare prompted the stuttered addition of, "S-sir."

"Your impatience is an unfortunate consequence of your youth. Don't let it be your undoing."

"What do you mean?"

"Acting without the necessary information puts you _and_ our operation at risk. Putting us at risk will end you."

Malcolm swallowed, then frowned. "I've been close enough to Hogwarts to touch the gates and they never spotted me. I've been careful."

"Make sure that continues to be the case."

"I just… I just wish we could get them already, destroy them."

"This is not a smash-and-grab, Baddock. To achieve what I want requires meticulous planning and more manpower than we have currently."

They were quiet for a moment, then Malcolm said, "You're sure they'll go to London after leaving Hogwarts?"

Another icy glare greeted Malcolm's question. The sound of others entering the room upended the silence.

The grounds had been warded against unwanted guests, but as an extra precaution, the house had been warded as well. If anyone not authorized to enter the house managed to get as far the door, they suffered a nasty shock—not powerful enough to kill, but enough to incapacitate them so that once they recovered they could be questioned. And if Onslow Mulciber—standing in for an imprisoned Walden Macnair—found their answers unsatisfactory, he executed them, then discarded their bodies somewhere on the property. He had filled three graves since mid-June.

Because no one had offered up a full account as to why Mulciber had killed three people, Malcolm assumed they had been Muggles that had wandered onto the grounds, unwitting lambs. They certainly hadn't been magical, because who would be trying to infiltrate them already? As far as Malcolm knew, the only people privy to these meetings were the people present in the house.

"Oh look," said Alecto Carrow, huffing and puffing as she waddled into the room, "little Baddock's here earlier than everyone, like always."

She looked strange, oddly diminished without her brother at her side. Not that Malcolm gave a toss that Amycus had died in the battle at Hogwarts.

He shot the short, fat witch a look of loathing. Every time they met she needled him about something. He was sick of it. She clearly resented him being there because he was so young. While she wasn't the only one who felt that way, she was the only one who made it a point to pick on him about it.

He'd never acknowledged her abuse before, but this time he said, "You know that's why people talk about you behind your back, A- _lec_ -to." He put a bit of emphasis on her name, knowing it would infuriate her.

After addressing her by her given name at one of their first meetings, she had shrieked at him that someone his age should never address an adult by their given name. He'd disliked her ever since. Had she been a schoolmate he might have ridiculed her skin, her hair, her revolting halitosis. But, he wasn't dealing with a group of students—he was a child amongst adults.

He'd been surprised and disappointed to find that they weren't all that different from his old classmates at Hogwarts. He often felt that he displayed infinitely more maturity than many of them.

Alecto gasped, scandalized. "Why you…"

"Don't dish it out if you can't take it," Jack Travers told her, with a rich chuckle. "You're at that boy all the time. It's a wonder he's held his tongue for as long as he has."

"I'd have kicked you up and down that hill out there first time you opened your mouth to me," Cai Montague told her. Alecto flipped her middle finger at him.

"Oh, I don't know, Cai," said Franc Urquhart, in that oily tone of his. "I think I might have found at least one good use for that mouth… Desperate times and such." He shifted his brows suggestively.

Montague gagged. "If I'm ever that desperate, I'll turn meself over to a Dementor."

"The lot of you can just fuck right off!" Alecto spat as Urquhart laughed.

"There's a good chap," said Terrence Higgs, clapping Malcolm on the shoulder. "Well done."

"Enough," Lucius said.

Everyone stilled, their eyes settling on him.

While it wasn't surprising that Lucius had stepped in to lead, Malcolm wondered why no one had challenged him. Merten Baddock, Malcolm's father, had never uttered a kind word about any of the Dark Lord's inner circle, mostly because he hadn't been a part of it, Malcolm thought, but Merten had made it clear that he'd had absolutely no good feeling for Lucius Malfoy. Even amongst Pure-bloods, the Malfoys had looked down their noses at everyone, smug in their superiority.

While eavesdropping one night, a few weeks before his father went missing, Malcolm heard Merten tell Imelda, "I watched him, Immy. He scarcely batted an eye when the Dark Lord killed Narcissa. He could have been scared out of his mind, for all I know, but I don't believe it. I always thought he'd sell his soul to stay in the inner circle, but I never imagined he'd sacrifice his family." He shook his head. "What You-Know-Who did to her, I wouldn't do to a Muggle."

Malcolm had always assumed the elder Malfoy had a temperament similar to Draco's, whom Malcolm had never liked. He'd sensed weakness in the whiney, entitled, pointy-faced Slytherin, so he hadn't been at all surprised when the boy had fled the dungeons to live with Snape and Harry Potter instead of taking the Mark. But Lucius seemed to be nothing like his son.

When Lucius took his seat at the head of the dining table, the others followed. Malcolm walked until he reached the last chair on the left side of the table as he wasn't allowed to sit anywhere near Lucius. His youth and lack of power and influence relegated him to the boonies, which pissed him off.

The way he saw it, he was doing more for the cause than any of them. He was the one risking getting caught every time he stood in the wood across the road from Hogwarts, waiting to see who passed through the school's gates. After, he would relay that intel to Lucius. Everyone else could barely step a toe out of their hidey-holes for fear of getting hauled in by Aurors. So, yes, he had as much at stake as any of them, probably more because he still had his mother and brother to worry about. Many of the others had only themselves to consider now.

Unlike his father, Malcolm didn't feel one way or the other about Lucius. For now, Malfoy was simply means to an end. Malcolm would do what he could to remain in the man's favor, but he had a limit: his brother and his mother. If Lucius ever demanded that he do anything to harm them or to do nothing while someone else harmed them, Malcolm would refuse, even if it meant dying, because death couldn't be worse than living after watching his mother and brother die.

The only other woman in the room sat on Malcolm's right. She was tall, nearly as tall as Lucius, with flawless fair skin, straight auburn hair, and dark, chilly eyes. She unnerved Malcolm. She rarely spoke, but when she did, he detected a slight accent, similar to Viktor Krum's.

Malcolm hadn't traveled outside of Britain much, save for visiting France one summer with his mum and brother, and spending the Christmas holiday in Germany two years ago where he and his family stayed with his dad's brother, Erich, so he didn't really know foreign accents. While he was deadly curious about the peculiar way she spoke, he had never dared ask her or anyone else about it. However, because the others typically ignored him, many didn't curb what they gossiped about around him. As a result, he had overheard several whispered conversations about her and they were just as curious about her as he was.

She had introduced herself as Arlinda White, which didn't sound particularly Eastern European, but Malcolm reckoned she might have come to Britain as a child or teenager, and because her family had not spoken English, they had changed their name to blend in. Or, she could have been born in Britain and her family had moved to Eastern Europe. He didn't know. In fact, no one seemed to know.

From what Malcolm could glean from conversations, no one had invited her to be a part of the group. She seemed to have just appeared out of nowhere, which instantly made Malcolm wary of her. He had been shocked when Lucius had so readily welcomed her. Of course, the man hadn't exactly seen fit to run that or any decision by Malcolm. Malcolm suspected the only person Lucius did consult about it had been Bertram Aubrey. Tellingly, Aubrey sat at Lucius's right.

Lucius said, "Our numbers remain distressingly spare, therefore we must continue reaching out to those that are reluctant to return."

"Establishing contact with those not on the death or missing rolls is important as well," Aubrey said. "Also, keep in mind, those who may not have been a part of the movement before."

"Yes," said Lucius, "with a bit of encouragement, they may now find that they are willing."

"Why bother with trying to sweet talk'em?" Urquhart said with that grating voice that made people wince when they first heard him. "Even without'em we'll be adding a few more strings to the lute in the next couple of weeks, eh?" He smiled and dropped a sly wink at Arlinda.

Malcolm rolled his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. While they desperately needed every able body they could get, Malcolm wished Urquhart had been dismembered by a giant on the battlefield or chucked into Azkaban. Malcolm despised him as Urquhart was supremely unpleasant to be around. Inexplicably, the man peppered conversations with ridiculous musical metaphors and told crude stories of his sexual escapades involving not only women but young girls and boys.

Whether he was simply boasting to have something to talk about or the stories were true, Malcolm didn't know, but Urquhart never shut up. He talked, in as low a tone as he could muster, unloading his vileness on those that sat below him in the pecking order, confident no one would say anything for fear of reprisals, or the more likely possibility of being ignored. Irritatingly, he sat smack in the middle, the unspoken dividing line between the more useful members and those that were less so.

It didn't escape Malcolm's notice that Urquhart never dished about his exploits within earshot of Lucius, Aubrey, or anyone that sat at the top half of the table. Regardless, he imagined someone close to Lucius, if not Lucius himself, had to know about Urquhart's sexual proclivities. Whenever the man got on topic, Malcolm did his best to block out the sound of his voice. He wasn't the only one.

Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm watched Arlinda. She didn't respond to Urquhart; she never did. She always acted indifferent, not just to Urquhart, but to everyone. While she hadn't uttered a word, her eyes radiated such vicious contempt for the wizard, Malcolm winced.

She blinked at Urquhart. When she blinked again, a slow, easy movement, the wizard's cocky smile faltered. He tried to hold it, his thin lips quivering as he struggled, but as Arlinda continued to gaze at him, Urquhart cleared his throat, chuckled uneasily, then turned his attention back to the head of the table.

Malcolm bit the inside of his jaw to keep from smiling. As he cast another furtive glance at Arlinda, he was shocked to find her sharp, dark-eyed gaze on him. He quickly lowered his eyes, his heart racing.

Not for the first time, he wondered why she was there, why she had wanted to join them. She seemed so out of place with her accent and detached demeanor. Each time Lucius called an end to the meetings, she was always the first to leave, without a word, as if she had somewhere more important to be.

Malcolm could only assume that, like him, she was carrying out Lucius's orders. While Lucius openly discussed plans to gain a consensus, he spoke only to individuals about their missions to prevent the Ministry from gaining information should any of them be captured.

Malcolm tried to look at her surreptitiously from beneath his lashes to see if she was still looking at him. She wasn't. Like Urquhart, she was listening to Lucius.

"Yeah, and everybody's on pins and needles about Potter's next step," said Travers, "if he can take one without assistance, that is."

Somebody sniggered and said, "Too right."

"Potter's health and recovery have been the primary focus of the Ministry and the _Prophet_ _,_ " said Lucius.

"Sickening," Alecto spat.

Malcolm agreed. The Ministry and the press fawned over Potter as if better wizards had never existed.

"But as I suspected," Lucius continued, "their single-minded hero-worship has impeded their ability to devote their full resources to finding and capturing our people, granting us the time and space to arrange for—as Urquhart mentioned—key additions to our numbers."

"We mustn't assume things will go off without a hitch, but it really should work in our favor," said Aubrey.

Malcolm wasn't certain, but he suspected the 'key additions' were prisoners from Azkaban. The thought of that place tied his stomach in knots.

Fear and hatred of the prison had been instilled in him since he was old enough to talk. Merten had often ranted about it, fearful of the Ministry's power following the Dark Lord's failed attempt to kill Harry Potter that Halloween night. The DMLE had rounded up a number of Lord Voldemort's supporters, jailing them for weeks, months before letting them go for a lack of evidence. But even before that, some relative—a cousin twice removed, or a great-great-great grandfather—had been imprisoned there, had died there.

Imagining what might happen if Aurors caught up to him and his family had made for many sleepless nights. Euan was young; he likely wouldn't go to Azkaban, but Imelda would, and Malcolm knew she'd never survive it.

After scattering to avoid capture the night of the battle, the Dark Lord's remaining followers, including Malcolm and his family, had wondered what to do. They hadn't counted on Potter winning. They had believed the Dark Lord's promises to make the wizarding world pure again. They had aligned themselves with his beliefs so utterly, they had made no contingencies for failure.

After his father's death last summer, with help from his Uncle Erich, Malcolm made sure his family had an out. Their Unplottable properties would shield them, save them from Azkaban. Then again, what if they didn't? What if they were found? Others had been.

Malcolm let out a heavy breath. He was getting himself worked up over something that hadn't happened yet. With any luck, it never would. He didn't worry much about himself getting caught, but he constantly questioned his ability to keep his brother and mother safe. He sighed again.

"Stop it," Arlinda hissed so that only he could hear.

Startled, Malcolm shifted to sit up straighter in his chair, then turned his attention to Lucius.

*SP


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **The Great Hall, July 1997 (21)** ** _…9:09 a.m._**

Harry Potter could not wait to leave Hogwarts.

The crush of bodies within the castle made him want to run screaming for the hills. Had it just been the students he'd likely still feel the same, but the additional family members, dignitaries, and occasional nutcases that got past the Aurors at the school's gates made things a thousand times worse.

Everyone wanted a piece of him—a word, a handshake, a moment to press gifts on him. A week ago, a squat, red-faced wizard tried cornering him near the corridor leading from the newly restored entrance doors. The wizard had a sheet of parchment. "A certificate honoring Harry's bravery," he claimed.

When he got too close, Draco snatched the parchment out of his hand and stepped in front of Harry. "Who are you?" he demanded coldly.

Harry rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. The instant he'd begun venturing around the castle after leaving the hospital ward, Draco and Snape had developed the maddening habit of treating him like a damsel in distress when strangers approached him. Harry had protested (loudly and often), telling them that he didn't need them hovering over him like a dragon guarding its egg, but neither Slytherin listened.

"I asked you a question!" Draco's voice had increased in volume.

"Draco…" Harry muttered when the man flinched and stared, shocked.

Draco didn't care. Something felt off. The wizard's smile held no warmth and he twitched a lot, as if uncomfortable in his skin.

"I meant no harm, Mr. Malfoy. I simply wished to…"

"How did you get in here?" Draco drew his wand. This caught the eye of a passing Auror, Brân Savage.

"Problem?" he said, striding over to them.

Draco indicated the red-faced wizard. "This man doesn't belong here."

"I beg your pardon!" The wizard blustered. "I simply hoped to bestow upon our young hero a token of my esteem!" Twirling his finger in an exaggerated motion, he gestured at the parchment in Draco's hand.

"I want to know how you got in here! Now!" Draco demanded, again.

The wizard rolled his eyes at Savage as if lamenting the insolence of today's youth. Savage cocked an eyebrow. "Answer him."

The wizard's good humor evaporated in a flash, then he muttered something unintelligible. Draco later told Snape that he'd never felt a rush of hatred like the one coming from that wizard. Meanwhile, Harry had been more concerned by the man's inexplicable focus on Draco's hand—the one holding the parchment.

When Harry looked down, Draco did, too. The edge of the parchment that was hanging towards the floor blackened and curled, as if on fire, yet there were no flames. The black traveled fast, closing in on Draco's fingers. The Slytherin cried out and threw the parchment to the floor.

Harry yanked him back, shouting, " _Protego Bubblis!_ "

A bubble materialized around the parchment. Within seconds, the sheet exploded, scorching the flagstone. The wizard snarled and spun on his heel to flee, but Brân whipped out his wand and muttered a spell. The wizard went down but continued trying to get away, his thick body crabbing an ungainly path across the floor as Brân advanced. Then the wizard began writhing and moaning, his skin rippling grotesquely as his body began to shrink. Passersby stopped to gape at the spectacle, watching as the voluminous robes deflated to puddle around a petite frame, a woman. The transformation made moving difficult, but the witch still struggled to pull something from her robes' pocket.

" _Expelliarmus!_ " Brân barked, thinking she was going for her wand. Instead, she clapped her hand over her mouth and swallowed.

Draco shouted, "Don't let her…" but, too late. The blonde witch's body trembled, then stilled. Her green eyes were wide and sightless; a tiny vial glittered in her open palm. Only seconds had passed, but her skin already had a bluish tint to it. Draco stepped towards her. "Aconite," he said as Brân knelt to examine her. "Unadulterated. Nothing else could work that fast."

Snape had been livid, demanding that Kingsley sack the Aurors that had been guarding the gate. Harry understood the man's anger; he also acknowledged that without Draco's suspicious nature that witch could have maimed or killed them.

While he could deal with Snape's overprotectiveness and Draco's hyper-vigilance, he desperately wanted a respite from the never-ending stares and whispers from everyone else within the castle. It didn't matter that the attention was mostly favorable. He told Draco that the good attention could be as aggravating as the bad.

Since his first year at Hogwarts people had resented him for his—to quote The Daily Prophet—"undeserved" notoriety, so he could handle the jealousy and bald-faced hatred, as it was nothing new. But now that he had gained even more renown for defeating Voldemort, his critics didn't spare his feelings. They repeatedly, and rather viciously claimed that luck, not skill or depth of magic was the reason he had bested the Dark Lord.

Strangely, according to the newspaper's reports, the naysayers had not been Voldemort supporters. Harry didn't get it. Draco had explained: "Potter, some people aren't happy unless they're criticizing someone. You could cure lycanthropy tomorrow and they'd wonder why it had taken you so long."

Regardless, the hostility of those rabid few didn't trouble Harry half as much as the toadyish pandering of people who barely knew him. He understood what it meant to admire powerful people; he had admired Dumbledore, and he nearly worshipped Snape. But he had grown up around those men. People who had never laid eyes on him regarded him as their hero and savior and he hated it. He didn't want that burden. He wanted to be Harry Potter, sixteen-year-old wizard, Severus Snape's son, Hermione Granger's boyfriend, and Ron Weasley's best mate. He wanted to be normal, which explained his and Draco's late arrival to breakfast. After the meal, he knew McGonagall would follow protocol and give an end-of-term speech, and because this term had ended so spectacularly, he knew there would be no avoiding mentioning his part in it.

Harry gripped the handle of his walking-stick as he, Draco, and Fang prepared to leave Snape's quarters. "Let's go eat," he said. Fang uttered a gruff _woof_ and trod on Draco's pricey leather loafers as the Slytherin held the door open. Thanks to Greyback ravaging his shoulder the night of the battle, the boarhound had a hitch in his gait when his right front paw hit the ground. He never let it slow him down though, particularly when treats were offered, which was often these days. Everyone in the castle doted on him, even McGonagall, who had never paid him much mind before the battle.

The doors to the Great Hall were propped open. The sound of conversation mixed with the clatter of knives, forks, and spoons spilled out into the corridor, greeting Fang and the boys long before they arrived at the hall's entrance. Inside the hall, the tables were laden with platters of bacon, steaming sausages, and ham, bowls of beans and fried eggs. Pyramids of toast, biscuits, and croissants sat next to pitchers of pumpkin juice, orange juice, and apple juice. Pots of tea and aromatic urns of coffee peppered the tables as well. But, instead of the usual sea of black-robed students, the benches were packed with families.

This was the last meal of the term and everyone had wanted to be there. To accommodate the overflow, smaller tables had been set up against the walls. When Ron stood and waved at them, Draco and Harry made their way to the Gryffindor table, sliding into the spaces Ron and Hermione had saved for them. Nearly an hour later, McGonagall stood and tapped her fork against her crystal goblet. The hall went silent as everyone looked up at her, expectant.

"It has been quite the year," she said. A soft murmur of agreement traveled round the hall. "While we have already honored many of our dead, before we part from one another, I wish to take a moment to honor the living."

"Hear! Hear!" Someone shouted and pounded their fists on the table. Other shouts and bursts of applause followed.

"As many of you know, Dumbledore worked tirelessly to bring as many allies into the fold as he could. It was not always easy to convince those who lived at great distances to leave the safety of their homes for the uncertainty and danger of war. But one ally answered the call immediately, and she answered it without question." McGonagall looked to her left. "Madame Maxime."

Beauxbaton's headmistress, clad in a sky-blue robe with a luxe rope of golf ball-sized pearls around her throat, and her gleaming black hair pulled back into a loose chignon, had a regal, somber air about her.

"I fear to think where we would be without your help," McGonagall said. "You brought the giants and we won the war."

The hall exploded with cheers, applause, and cries of "Vive Madame Maxime! Vive Beauxbatons!"

Visibly moved, Maxime nodded her head and clasped her hands before her breasts. "Merci. Merci tout le monde," she rumbled, her black eyes liquid with emotion.

Once the applause faded, McGonagall spoke to the centaur standing near the Great Hall's entrance. "Firenze, your expertise forged an unlikely crew of warriors. Unafraid to do their part they were led by one of the bravest magical beings I've ever had the honor of knowing. Dobby?"

The crack of house-elf Apparition filled the hall as elves popped into the room, lining the aisles between the House tables. The students (with the exception of Hermione) didn't know it, but before the battle the elves had numbered in the hundreds. Out of 184, only 72 remained. Some students jumped up onto their seats and stamped their feet, hooting and whistling. Others knelt down to hug the little creatures or hold their hands, whispering words of praise. Many of the house-elves, embarrassed, nervous, and unused to such attention, clutched their ears or their Hogwarts tea towels and looked around shyly. Dobby, sporting a painfully bright red pair of socks with a gold scripted D embroidered onto them, winked and waved at Harry when the boy shouted his name.

Several girls approached Firenze, presenting him with long necklaces they had made using wildflowers from the sloping northeastern end of the grounds. He gracefully lowered himself to his forelegs and allowed them to loop the garlands over his head while flashing that enigmatic smile of his. The girls blushed and giggled, then scurried back to their seats. A grinning Dobby raised a hand and snapped his fingers, disappearing. Within seconds the other house-elves followed.

Once the applause quieted, McGonagall said, "Aderyn and her band of Adar Llwch Gwin flew south last month, back to their ancestral grounds. In a show of gratitude, the Ministry signed an accord ensuring that, while the Minister of Magic is privy to their general location, he or she shall never be allowed to seek them out, for any reason, in perpetuity. With that said, we must acknowledge a debt of thanks to our own Hermione Granger, who –" A fierce eruption of applause drowned out McGonagall's words. When she was able to continue, she said, "Hermione Granger, who in the midst of the battle, convinced the Adar Llwch Gwin to turn on their Death Eater masters and fight with us."

Hermione flushed and threw up a little wave as everyone roared her name and clapped wildly. She laughed, delighted, when fourth-year Slytherin, Hank McCoy, dashed over to give her a bowling ball-sized bouquet of freshly picked bluebells, her favorite wildflower. Realizing he must have risen with the sun to gather that many of the little flowers, she bussed the grinning boy's cheek.

Trying to be heard over the cheers, McGonagall continued her roll call: "Luna Lovegood, George Weasley." The applause soared with each name until McGonagall gave in and cast the Sonorous Charm. "Bill Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Arthur and Molly Weasley, Andromeda Black Tonks, Filius Flitwick, Charity Burbage, Pomona Sprout, Irma Pince, Argus Filch, Madam Rosmerta, Ambrosius Flume, Poppy Pomfrey, St. Mungo's staff lead by Healers Brady and Reddy, Bogrod the Bearded and his goblins. Aurors Savage, Williamson and Proudfoot, Ossie, the Glass Hoof's Watchman, and Aberforth Dumbledore. We must also acknowledge our Slytherin comrades who worked undercover: Bram Nott, Charles Davis, Marcus Flint, and Danny Jugson."

Slytherin students rose as a unit, their wands in the air, acknowledging their House's contribution. Nott, Davis, Flint, and Jugson, sitting at the end of the Slytherin table with their families, nodded soberly at McGonagall.

"And although he could not break bread with us this morning, I dare not forget our new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt." The applause was deafening by then. McGonagall paused to let it go on. She cleared her throat and drank deeply from her goblet, soothing her exhausted vocal chords. As she drank, her eyes wandered the room, taking in the House tables.

Like the other three tables, Slytherin's was packed with students and their families, but the dearth of Slytherin faces cut deep. Some were sitting elsewhere, but nothing disguised the fact that they made up barely a quarter of everyone there. Weeks before the Final Battle, Dumbledore had spoken to a number of Slytherin parents who had removed their children from school after the attack on Hogsmeade. He had begged them to return, trying to change the minds of the more reasonable among them, telling them that if they did not want to send their children abroad, Hogwarts was the safest place for them. Of the twenty or so willing to hear what he had to say, only four families allowed their children to return.

Gregory Goyle, orphaned after his parents refused to surrender to Aurors at the Riddle House, sat near the middle of the table, clapping his large hands together in an awkward, brutal way, as if he were trying to swat a gnat and kept missing it. Luna sat across from Goyle, her father beside her. The sight of him made McGonagall want to weep. No one could ever accuse Xenophilius of having a ruddy complexion, but after so many months of being imprisoned and tortured, his skin looked as translucent as a fly's wing, giving him a corpse-like appearance. Luna held one of his thin hands, stroking it, as if to soothe him.

Despite the jubilant atmosphere, a number of people were crying. McGonagall's own eyes shimmered like black diamonds as she sipped more water. Blinking rapidly, she put down her goblet and clasped her hands in front of her as the hall finally calmed.

"Ron Weasley –"

"Has barely a quarter of my brains and none of my exceptional good looks," Blaise Zabini crowed from the Ravenclaw table.

"That's not what you were screaming last night!" Ron shot back. Laughter and catcalls rolled across the hall.

"Oh, ew." Someone offered.

"Well, he may not have the looks," McGonagall said. "Oy!" Ron cried when more laughter filled the hall. "But," McGonagall continued, "he might someday make a fair healer or mediwizard should he decide to buckle down and apply himself. Mr. Weasley saved many lives that night, bringing in the wounded, comforting them as he did so."

"Hear! Hear!" shouted Tracey Davis.

Then a chant, beginning somewhere in the middle of the hall (Ron figured it was probably Blaise, again), quickly spread: "Weas-ley! Weas-ley! Weas-ley!"

Red as a beet and feeling suddenly shy, Ron shook his head. He hunched his shoulders and suffered Harry blowing kisses at him until McGonagall raised her hand for quiet. Her voice had grown raspy. She imagined it would leave her soon if she didn't finish.

"Many of us, Slytherins in particular, made agonizing choices between what was right and what was easy. Draco Malfoy," McGonagall said, piercing the boy with a sharp look. "You turned your back on everything you knew, carving your own path, even at risk of death. You exemplify how one's beginning in life need not dictate one's path. And, you have proven yourself wise, brave, and loyal."

The hall was quiet. There was no sudden eruption of applause, no bawdy outbursts in response to McGonagall's words. Not for him. Not for the son of Lucius Malfoy. The weight of that silent attention made Draco want to disappear. Why had McGonagall singled him out? Didn't she know that it didn't matter that he had denounced his family, that he had escaped the Dark Lord and much of who he used to be? She had to know that most of his schoolmates still despised him, giving him crooked looks in the corridors, whispering behind their hands because he'd done too much damage over the years. He inhaled sharply and bowed his head as an unfamiliar wave of shame washed over him. He wasn't used to hiding who he was; he wasn't used to feeling inferior. He hated it and desperately wished he were anywhere but the Great Hall.

Then the place exploded with applause, making him jump. Boys sitting nearby got up to clap him on the back; girls lined up to hug and kiss him. Bewildered and a little frightened, Draco looked over his shoulder at Ron. Ron smiled and nodded; Draco nodded back, then looked down to find his right hand entwined with Ron's. He hadn't realized he'd reached out until that moment. He gripped it a bit tighter and felt himself relax when Ron did the same. He then watched Harry use Neville's head and shoulder to stand up on the bench with a terrified Hermione and Pansy spotting him. Once he was upright and steady, Harry hooted and yelled and clapped louder than anybody.

Frowning, Draco stood too, stretching across the table to brace Harry, even though he couldn't reach him. "Get down before you kill yourself!"

Harry just threw his head back and howled as Hermione and Neville held onto his legs. Draco looked at the High Table. Snape hitched a brow at him and shook his head. Draco turned back to Harry, who was still carrying on. "You're an idiot!" he said, but when his lips curved into a small, annoyed smile, Harry laughed and pumped his fists high above his head.

McGonagall leaned over behind Madame Maxime to have a short discussion with Madam Pomfrey as the applause went on. She was going to need something for her throat after the castle emptied. Once everyone settled back into their seats, she said, "There is an old saying that a hero is a man who is afraid to run away. I must say I can't think of a more profoundly fitting description of Severus Snape –" The hall shook with the noise. "And Harry Potter!" McGonagall shouted. She then raised her goblet, first to Snape, sitting to her right, and then to Harry.

Everyone followed her lead, bellowing: "Severus Snape! Harry Potter!" It quickly turned into a call-and-response competition, one side of the hall calling out Harry's name while the other side shouted Snape's.

Hermione slipped her arms under Harry's to hold him from behind. "You've always been my hero," she whispered into his ear.

Harry covered her hands with his and leaned back into her, trying to bury his face in her neck and hair, but then Neville leaned over to plant a kiss on Harry's forehead. Harry laughed and took Neville's face in his hands. He pressed the boy's cheeks together, making his lips poke out. Neville laughed and pulled him into a hug. "Love you, mate," he said into Harry's ear. Stunned, Harry jerked back to look at him.

Harry and his classmates had all changed physically over the last few years, but Neville's transformation was probably the most remarkable. The round-faced boy Harry had met on the train nearly seven years ago had morphed into a young man whose face was now all angles with the sharpest edges lining his cheekbones and chin giving him a rugged, more mature look. He had the same mousy-brown curls on his head, but the whiskers on his cheeks, chin, and upper lip had a rusty tinge to them. His hands, once pudgy and clumsy, had become square and coarse, his nails blunt from pushing around dirt most of the day, yet his touch was always gentle. Harry's shy, young friend was now a confident, handsome man. Harry grinned at Pansy when she reached around Neville to grasp one of Harry's hands.

Everyone in the hall was on their feet. Harry only noticed when they began shuffling past to touch him, to talk to him, to demonstrate the absolute sort of behavior he despised. But he forced himself to bear it. Hermione kept an arm around him, aiming to stave off the more enthusiastic folks in the line. Neville and Pansy did the same, but mostly people just wanted Harry to acknowledge them with a shy strained smile or a soft "Hey", "How are you?" or "Thank you."

A great number passed by the Head Table to nod at Snape; some even extended their hands to him. Snape graciously shook each one as Harry watched, noting how supremely uncomfortable the man looked. Harry understood because, like him, Snape loathed this sort of attention.

"Everyone," McGonagall called after most of the hall had made the rounds past Snape and Harry. Her voice was nearly gone. "Take your seats, please. Thank you. Now that you've made my Deputy Headmaster want to run for the – Johnson! Don't you dare put that honey in Creevey's hair!"

"But ma'am!" The third-year Slytherin whinged. "I –"

"Hush! Put it down, now!"

"It's not like I was gonna put _all_ of it in!" Harry heard the boy grumble as his mother glared at him. Harry laughed, before looking back at McGonagall.

"This year tested us in ways we couldn't have imagined, yet here we are, battered, but not beaten, fewer, but united as never before. Our school is in shambles, but come September 1st its doors shall open. The grounds may not be as pristine as we're used to and the two towers, the North Tower and Ravenclaw, may still be under repair at that time, but Ravenclaws needn't worry. Slytherin's Head of House has offered up room in the dungeons until your tower is completed."

Students slapped the tables and stomped their feet. McGonagall held up a hand for silence. The noise didn't die, but it did fade. "As I said, this battle has changed us, but life here at Hogwarts shall go on. Letters shall be dispatched within the next few weeks; Diagon Alley shall be overrun with shoppers, and come October, Hogsmeade shall welcome you back—third years and up, of course."

It now sounded like a crowd at the Quidditch World Cup. Fang, lying in front of the Head Table at the foot of the dais, raised his head and howled. A child, no more than three years old, who had been eyeing the dog greedily since Fang arrived, slithered free from his father's arms and tottered up to the boarhound. His pudgy arms and hands stuck straight out to balance himself with each wobbly step, but as he got close, Fang's long back leg tripped the boy up and he fell, face first into the dog's stomach.

The boy's father jumped to his feet and raced towards him. He stopped when Fang nudged the child up to stand, then dragged his tongue up the boy's face. The tinkling sound of his laughter and squeal caused Snape to stand up and lean over the table to see what was going on. The toddler had looped his arms around Fang's neck and was giggling uncontrollably. His father, an adult version of him with close-cropped black hair and copper-colored skin, crept towards him, face frowned up in concern. Snape knew Fang wouldn't harm the boy, but he rose to go see to the dog anyway.

As McGonagall motioned for quiet once more, a piercing whistle cut through the din.

"Let her finish!" Theo Nott shouted. "Let her finish!"

"Thank you, Mr. Nott," McGonagall said when the hall finally quieted. "Right, then. For those who shall be traveling by train, carriages are waiting outside to take you to the station. For those going by Floo, they are now operational. Those of you using Portkeys, please proceed to the garden gate for your departures, and travel safely. Until September," she said, then moved to step down from the dais.

"Headmistress," Neville called. "Let's have a song, shall we?"

McGonagall turned back and looked out at the sea of faces looking back at her. She nodded. "Go on then."

Neville stood and began singing in a lovely, clear tenor:

 _"Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts,_ _  
 _teach us something, please…"__

After the end of the song (sung in the eccentric style that Dumbledore had encouraged with some singing slow, some singing fast or even rapping) the mad scramble to leave the castle that normally took place on the last day of term didn't. Instead, people lingered, shedding tears, making promises to write and demands to visit.

Draco had joined Blaise and his mother near the front of the Ravenclaw table. Blaise smiled as his mother embraced Draco. Harry thought she was stunning. She was shorter than Blaise, who was 6'3", but not by much. She had skin the color of mahogany, black, almond-shaped eyes impeccably outlined with kohl, and full bow-shaped lips pulled back in a warm smile revealing snow-white teeth.

"Who's Snape talking to?" Ron asked.

Harry turned towards the Head Table to see Snape engaged with the toddler's father. "Dunno," he said as another boy, a few years older and bearing a strong resemblance to the child and the man dashed over to Snape and grabbed his leg.

"Professor!"

Unfazed, Snape lowered his right hand to touch the crown of the child's head. "Hello, Naji," he said.

Naji pointed to the toddler, now gnawing on Fang's neck. "That's my little brother, Bram. Remember I told you? Bram's short for Abraham."

"I do." Snape nodded.

"So, you're the infamous Professor," the man said. "To hear Naji talk, you're Merlin reborn."

Snape snorted softly. "Far from it."

"No," the man said, extending his hand to take Snape's, "better. You risked your life, going into that den of snakes again and again for my boy, for all of those children."

"He looked different every time, Dad!" Naji said, still holding onto Snape. "And then when he was alone with us, he changed back to look like the way he does now. Annie thought he was a vampire at first, but I knew he wasn't 'cause he never once turned into a bat."

"Bat! Bat! Bat! Bat!" Bram shouted lustily into Fang's ear. The dog groaned and licked the boy's face, making him giggle again.

"The name's Abdullah, Kalil Abdullah. Professor, you don't know what you did for me, for my boy. They're mum… She was killed when they took Naji. Bram and I had gone to the park; she needed a break. The boy had been an absolute terror all day, but Naji didn't want to leave her, promising to be quiet so that she could rest. He said they were napping on the sofa. The sound of the front door exploding woke them up.

"Zora always had her wand to hand, but not that time… They killed her, took my boy… I didn't know what to do. I'm not magical, but I know things from Zora, from my boys—both come into the world little wizards. 'Course I didn't have to be magical to know what that green skull with the snake in its mouth hanging over my house meant. My neighbors were panicked and either unwilling or unable to help, save one…"

"Mr. Tonks. Ted."

"Yeah, he and his wife, good people. Bram and I, we were coming up the street, going towards the house and he saw us and cast some sort of spell or charm to make us invisible. Then he yelled at me to run. He paid for it, though, for helping us. I saw them shoot him with a green light. Later, when I read that their daughter, the Auror, was killed trying rescue Harry Potter, I... S' damn tragic, losing a child like that. Damn tragic."

Snape said nothing. He looked over at Harry when he joined them.

"Hey," Harry said.

"Harry, I want you to meet…"

"Bat! Bat! Bat! Bat!" Bram had made his way over from the dais. He bounced up and down, his arms held out for Snape to pick him up.

Snape's eyebrows jumped and he looked at Abdullah, who smiled and said, "He don't take much to strangers, but he seems to like you."

"Bat!" Bram tugged at Snape's robes until the man leaned down to pick him up. Unsure of how to manage the wriggling tot, Snape held him straight out in front of him. The boy giggled and kicked his legs. "Fly! Fly! Fly! Fly!" He shouted.

Harry laughed at Snape's expression. The Potions master looked as if he were handling a cauldron full of rancid bubotuber pus. Bram wasn't bothered; he looked back at Snape, big dark eyes smiling, curious.

"Fly!" He demanded. "Bram, fly!"

Snape cleared his throat and looked at Abdullah again. "It's something I can't do," the man said, his smile sad. "Zora used to float him round the house all the time. I figure he's bound to play Quidditch once he's old enough to sit a broom."

"Go on," said Harry.

After flashing him a look, Snape muttered, "You're so eager, you make the little monster fly."

Harry grinned and directed his finger in a small circle. Bram's eyes widened with glee when his body drifted away from Snape, who gently let go.

"Daddy!" Bram squealed. "Flying, Daddy! Flying, like wit Mummy!"

"Yes, son, I see. S'wonderful."

"Fly, Naji! Fly wit me!"

"No, Bram. You fly. Have fun. You having fun?"

"Yeah! You not goin' way, are you? Like last time, you won't go way?"

"No, I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

"'Kay." Bram looked at Harry. "Fly higher!"

"Only a little higher, all right?" Harry said.

"Higher!" Bram giggled as Harry directed him to soar over his father's teasing hands.

"Fly, Bram," Naji told his brother.

*SP


	4. Chapter 4

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **The Leaky Cauldron, London, July 1997 (21) **

"Merlin…" Draco murmured as they stepped onto Diagon Alley.

At breakfast, McGonagall had spoken so confidently about shoppers crowding the narrow, crooked street to stock up on supplies for the new school year. Seeing it now, Harry wondered if her optimism wasn't misguided—or worse. Did she truly know what was going on?

Diagon Alley was a mess.

In its current state, it couldn't possibly be back to normal in time for school. Magic would certainly speed repairs along, but so little time had passed since the Final Battle. Folks were still grieving, and that grief affected everything, including the rebuilding. While having dinner with Snape, Harry, Draco, and Aberforth in Snape's quarters two weeks ago, Kingsley had revealed how difficult things had been at the Ministry.

"More than three-quarters of the Floos were gutted—a tactic the Death Eaters used to prevent escape and rescue," he had said.

Auror headquarters, Wizengamot administration services, and the Department of International Magical Cooperation had been nearly wiped out as well. The only levels free from damage were nine, which housed the Department of Mysteries, and ten, home of the infamous Courtroom Ten.

Harry hated that the devastation at the Ministry made Kingsley's job harder, but he couldn't have cared less. The place was a black hole of bad memories, particularly levels nine and ten. But Diagon Alley was different.

During Harry's last trip to the street, he and Snape had been Poly-juiced as Edmund and James Brockman; Draco had been a hollow-eyed wreck at Lucius's side. Harry found it hard to believe that not even a year had passed since then.

As dusk crept over the street, the street lights flared to life, their ghostly-glow illuminating the destruction. The stationery shop was an empty husk; Eeylops Owl Emporium had been razed; Ollivander's was missing half of its pitched roof. The apothecary was still in decent shape, as was Quality Quidditch Supplies, but blackened craters occupied the spaces where Madam Malkin's and Florean Fortescue's shops had lived.

That last one hit Harry the hardest. Fortescue had been a good man, kind. Harry recalled the dimples deeply set into the old wizard's cheeks and how they had deepened even more when Fortescue smiled—which had been often that summer of Harry's third year as he served the boy free sundaes every half hour. According to the official record, Fortescue was one of nearly a hundred still missing or unaccounted for. After seeing what was left of the ice cream shop, Harry wondered if there had simply been nothing left of the shopkeeper to find.

"Can we go?" he said quietly.

Noting the ashen tone of Harry's skin, Snape said, "Yes. Draco, come."

The trip to London had taken hours longer than normal. Just like at breakfast, in addition to the usual crowd of students, the Hogwarts Express had been packed with families. Some got off before London, which had been strange. The train had never made stops before, let alone multiple stops, but the closer they got to London, the emptier the train became, which made Harry happy. He had tired quickly of people stopping to say "Hello", or to feed Fang treats from the trolley, or to just stare into the car, ogling them like they were zoo animals.

Now that they had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, exhaustion hit him like a punch. Snape had tried to convince him to sleep on the train, but Harry had chosen to lean against the Potions master and gaze out the window. The pastoral lushness of the landscape was a welcome change from Hogwarts's battle-scarred grounds. But, when he grew bored of the countryside zipping past, he shot tiny electrical pulses at Draco's hair, making strands of it stand on end as the Slytherin napped on a silk pillow he had transfigured from his tie. Harry stopped when Snape, who had been engrossed in a book, made a noise that might have been a laugh.

Snape pulled open the door to the pub, allowing the boys and Fang to pass through.

"Ah!" Tom said, grinning widely as he shuffled from behind the bar to greet them. "You made it!"

"Our rooms, are they ready?" Snape spoke quietly, inwardly cringing at Tom's enthusiastic greeting, but relieved that the innkeeper hadn't used their names.

A man and a woman, too deeply involved in conversation to notice new arrivals, and a man sitting alone in a shadowy corner—his face dipped so low over his flagon of ale that Harry wondered if he had fallen asleep—were the only patrons in the pub.

Regardless, Snape peered about, ever vigilant. While waiting at the castle's steps to board the carriages, Mr. Creevey had said to him, "Now that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is, well, you know, dead and gone, it's a blessing to be able to rest easier, isn't it?"

"I couldn't say," Snape had replied.

"Ah, surely you can let go of your paranoia now, Professor?" said a Hufflepuff parent, who had been standing nearby. "Relax it a bit, at least?"

Snape had crooked an eyebrow and said, "I can relax when I'm dead."

Harry, having overheard the exchange, sighed at Snape's tone, but the man was right. Voldemort's death didn't exempt the wizarding world from peril. Several Death Eaters had not been accounted for, dead or alive. It pained Harry to admit it, but vigilance was still a necessary evil.

"Aye, Professor, aye," Tom said, his toothless smile animating his long, wrinkled face. "Everything's done up for you. My grand-niece, Thomasin'll show you about. Will you be wantin' some nibbles? Since the train took longer than usual, I figgered you'd be done in."

"No, thank you. Perhaps later. We have the entire floor to ourselves, yes?"

Tom nodded, motioning Thomasin over from the table she was wiping down. "Won't be nobody botherin' you, no worries there. In fact, the minister sent an Auror to look after you, fella called Savage. I only know 'cause he introduced hisself to me. But, like I said, there won't be nobody bein' a bother to you, I'll see to that."

"Thank you."

"Now you follow Thomasin there, she'll tell you what's what. She's got your keys as well."

A petite, lithe girl with almond-colored skin and a bushy crown of black ringlets tiptoed up to Snape. "This way." She smiled brightly and started away, curls bouncing with each step, her feet positioned as if she planned to jeté across the room.

"Slowly, please," said Snape. "My son can't move very fast."

Thomasin spun back around to look at Draco, then Harry. After running her eyes up and down his body and spotting his walking-stick, she shot him a brilliant smile. Despite how tired he was, Harry smiled back goofily. She was pretty. She reminded him of Hermione with her short stature and wild hair.

"Of course," Thomasin said. She stepped over to take Harry's left hand and slowly led him to the stairs.

Once they reached the top of the staircase, Thomasin chatting the entire time, Brân Savage appeared on the landing. He smiled, noticing the way Harry was staring at Thomasin, who was fussing over him, making sure he cleared each step without trouble.

"Harry, how are you?" Brân said.

"Fine, thanks." Harry grinned at the Auror after tearing his gaze away from Thomasin. "Sorry you got stuck looking after us."

Brân shook his head. "'S my pleasure. Draco."

"Auror Savage," said Draco, as he stepped past Harry, eyeing the hallway suspiciously, a hand on Fang's head.

"Severus…"

Snape shot Brân a curt nod.

"This is your and your brother's room," Thomasin said to Harry, pointing to room number eleven, the same room he had stayed in after blowing up his Aunt Marge. "Professor, this one is yours." Thomasin pointed to room number ten, which sat to the left of the boys', then she handed them their keys. "Please don't hesitate to ring if you need anything—fresh towels, change of bedding, bite to eat. Uncle Tee usually bunks down round eleven or so, but if you need anything after that, the night maid, Jenny, will be up."

"Thank you, Thomasin," Snape said. "That shall be all for now." He pressed a coin into her hand.

"As you wish, sir," Thomasin said, dipping into a graceful curtsey. Before bounding down the stairs, she winked at Harry, who grinned and gave her a shy wave before she disappeared.

"I'm in two," Brân said, indicating the room directly across from Snape's.

"I want to check your room," Snape said to Harry and Draco.

"I've been through this entire building, Severus. Shacklebolt…" Brân said before Snape turned his back on him.

Harry frowned. Why was Snape being so rude? He knew from Draco that Brân had been a near constant presence when Harry had been on the hospital ward, and that he had never stopped trying to engage Snape in conversation.

"He obviously can't take a hint," Draco had told Harry.

"'Bout what?" Harry had asked. Draco had rolled his eyes.

Snape seemed to be the only one Brân rubbed the wrong way. Hermione had gushed unendingly about the Auror after the battle; Harry understood why. Brân was commanding, heroic—unsurprising given his job—but he was also kind. He reminded Harry of Sirius, or how he imagined his godfather might have looked if not for Azkaban. Sirius and Brân had gray eyes, black hair, and a roguish smile. But that didn't explain Snape's chilly attitude. Unlike Snape and Sirius, Snape and Brân didn't have a history. In fact, since the night of the battle, Brân had gone out of his way to be decent to Snape, despite being coldly rebuffed each time.

Regardless of Snape's feelings, Harry sensed Brân was a good man.

"Thanks, Auror Savage," he said, wanting to ease the sting of Snape's behavior.

Brân looked away from Snape to smile at Harry. "Brân's fine, Harry. It's a lot less conspicuous than being called, 'Auror', eh? There's no need to stand on ceremony with me, yeah?"

"Yes, sir," Harry said, suddenly remembering that Brân was some kind of Welsh nobleman, an earl or something. Hermione had mentioned it during one of her long-winded spiels about how "incredibly fascinating" Brân was. Harry might hate Brân if he didn't like him so much.

"See you in the morning, then?" Brân said.

Harry nodded and followed Snape into his and Draco's room.

*SP

 **The Leaky Cauldron, Harry and Draco's Room, London, July 1997 (21)**

Instead of the single bed the room had held when Harry stayed there before, it now had two. Fang leapt up to settle at the foot of the bed nearest the door, his forelegs and paws hanging over the edge. Harry joined him, curling up next to the boarhound and resting his head on Fang's shoulder to watch Snape direct his wand around the room as Draco restored their things from their shrunken form.

Despite defeating Voldemort, Harry couldn't legally use magic outside of Hogwarts because he wasn't of age yet. Under normal circumstances, it would have irked him that Draco could use magic away from school while he couldn't, but circumstances had hardly been normal of late, and the next few days would be no exception.

Antonin Dolohov's trial for war crimes was scheduled for Monday; Billy Loyd would be tried on Tuesday. Initially, Snape rejected the idea of Harry and Draco attending any of the hearings because of the circus they would attract, but Kingsley had said that they might be called to testify, something each of them dreaded. But, if they had to be there, Harry preferred the trials being back to back. It would be exhausting, but it also meant they wouldn't have to worry about being called back to London while at Soth-ince.

When Draco asked why the trials were being held so quickly, Kingsley had said that the thought of sitting through countless hearings, forcing witnesses and their families to relive the horror of the battle for weeks, possibly months, made many uneasy. To allay concerns, the Ministry asked the Wizengamot to fast-track certain trials—Dolohov's and Loyd's among them.

When the Wizengamot agreed, the defendants' solicitors railed against the decision, calling it a "contemptible excuse to circumvent the law." They argued that such "reckless expeditiousness encouraged a rush to judgment", exposing their clients to "prejudicial harm" as the trials were occurring so soon after the battle when "emotions were still far too raw" from the "incident."

The Wizengamot considered their arguments, then dismissed them as unfounded. The Chief Warlock noted that the ravages of the battle would not fade with the passage of time, nor would the emotions of those affected by the alleged actions of the defendants. The Wizengamot then questioned how if the solicitors' defense could not withstand the scrutiny now, why they felt that in a few more weeks, or months, it would do any better?

The solicitors reiterated their claim that speedy trials would hobble their defense as they needed time to gather supporting witnesses for their clients. When the Chief Warlock mentioned that if their clients didn't mind an extended stay in Azkaban, perhaps the Wizengamot would reconsider. Despite fiercely working to slow the process, the solicitors despised spending time at the prison, especially as many of their clients were less than helpful when encouraged to strategize for their defense.

Once the solicitors conceded to the timeline, in an effort to appease their demands for fairness, Kingsley requested that Chiefs and members of governments from allied nations preside over the more infamous defendants. He also asked that some cases be conducted in courtrooms outside of Britain.

Kingsley told Snape that Antonin Dolohov and Billy Loyd would be judged in London by members of the Magical Congress of the United States of America.

"Tomorrow's gonna be fun," Harry said, quietly.

Snape looked away from the wardrobe he was inspecting; Draco stopped arranging his things on the bureau. He turned to look at Harry.

"At least it'll be over," Draco said. "Once they're convicted, we needn't concern ourselves with them anymore. They'll be in Azkaban… if they're not sentenced to something worse."

"I guess," Harry mumbled while rubbing his chest. "Think they'll call us to testify?"

Draco shook his head and shrugged. "If they do… We've survived worse, Potter."

With those words, the tightness in Harry's chest eased a bit.

*SP

 **The Leaky Cauldron, Harry and Draco's Room, London, July 1997 (22)**

Just after midnight, Harry lay in bed, restless. Lately, when he dreamed, he dreamed of Soth-ince. The bowl-shaped land and cottage with the red door were never far from his mind. Before the Final Battle, he had been counting the days until they would leave Hogwarts for the trip south, but as usual, nothing went to plan. A simple Quidditch scrimmage had turned into a real battle and he had ended the night in a coma.

After waking in the Great Hall, the desire to be at Soth-ince had weighed on him like the threat of another showdown with Voldemort. He missed his bed; the compactness of his room; the smell of the sea wafting in through the mullioned window. He longed to be there so badly his bones ached, even deeper than the ache caused by his healing.

A little before 1:00 a.m. he left his room for Snape's. After one quiet knock, Snape opened the door.

"Are you all right?" Snape stepped out into the hall, looking left, then right, his black eyes sharp with suspicion. Harry noted that he was still wearing the robes he'd worn on the train.

"Fine. Can I come in?"

"Of course."

Once inside, Harry saw that Snape's bed was still made; it hadn't even been sat on, but his trunk was halfway open, and the room's desk was littered with parchment, a bottle of ink, and several quills. Candles sat on both ends of the desk, casting bright yellow halos on everything, including a thick book that lay open near the desk's edge.

"I don't want to interrupt your work," Harry said.

"It can wait." Snape pointed at the bed, a silent demand for Harry to sit. "What's on your mind?"

"I just want to go home." Harry slowly settled on the side of the bed facing Snape.

Snape sighed as he leaned back into his chair. "I know."

Harry yawned then reached for the bedspread, pulling it up around his shoulders. "I hope they don't call us to testify."

"If they do, we'll manage."

"Yeah…" Harry yawned again. "'Spose so," he said, then lay down, curling up on his side. "Can't wait to sleep in my own bed, sit next to my rowan…visit…oaks..."

Once he was certain Harry was asleep, Snape got up to arrange him on the bed properly. He hadn't anticipated getting to sleep anyway. After covering Harry up, he removed the boy's glasses and set them on the side table before lightly running his fingers over the stubble atop Harry's head, lingering over the raised scar at the back of his skull. He blew out the candle on the bedside table, then stepped out into the hall, heading for the boys' room. The moment he reached for the knob, the door flew open.

"Merlin!" Draco said, stopping himself from plowing into Snape. "Potter… I woke up… He's gone! We have to –"

"He's in my room. He couldn't sleep."

"…Oh."

"I was coming to check that you were all right."

"I'm fine," Draco said. Snape hitched a brow. The clammy, paleness of the boy's skin told Snape otherwise. "I… I had a dream… a nightmare," Draco admitted, "but I'm all right, now."

Snape said, "Come."

Draco didn't argue. Snape snapped his finger and Fang joined them in the hallway. Just as he closed the door, Brân's opened. The Auror stepped out into the hall wearing only a pair of indigo sleep pants. His hair was a messy black nimbus atop his head.

"Severus? Everything all right?"

"Yes," Snape said, following Draco and Fang to his room before shutting the door in Brân's face. As Draco climbed onto the bed to lie alongside Harry, Snape returned to his seat at the desk and picked up a quill; Fang settled at the man's feet.

"Severus?"

"Yes, Draco?"

Harry and Draco mostly called Snape 'sir' or 'Professor', but he had also become used to them calling him 'Dad', so much so that it startled him when Draco called him by his given name. Snape surmised that when Draco did that, it was because he was feeling apart from the Potions master and Harry. The young Slytherin would never admit it, but Snape always sensed when it happened.

"I don't… I don't…"

Snape stopped writing to look around as Draco began snoring softly. The boy had the habit of falling asleep mid-sentence, something Harry took great delight in because he believed that Draco believed, as with most things, that he was perfect at sleeping.

Snape watched them. They were as different asleep as when they were awake. Draco lay still and mostly quiet throughout the night, a hoarse gasp and blinking, frightened gray eyes the only sign of a nightmare. Harry's body and mind seemed perpetually restless. His legs, arms, fingers, and head twitched as he mumbled softly, incoherently, unless he really was in the throes of a nightmare. Then his words came out disturbingly clear, piercing Snape's heart like a dagger.

Now, the boy lay curled up in a ball, his typical sleeping position with the bedspread pulled up over his face, leaving only the top of his head visible. Conversely, Draco lay flat on his back, head turned to the side. Snape got up to spread the rest of the bedspread over Draco's body.

It hadn't escaped his attention that neither of them had reacted when Thomasin referred to them as brothers. He didn't know if they considered the other as such or not. He supposed it didn't matter. So much had changed. His life now would have seemed impossible, even ridiculous a year ago. Perhaps it should feel strange raising Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. But it didn't.

They were his sons, undeniably different, but his.

*SP


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **The Ministry of Magic, Level Ten, Courtroom Ten, July 1997 (22)**

Two years ago, when Harry was tried for using underage magic, Courtroom Ten's size had overwhelmed him, making him feel like a pet goldfish someone had chucked into the Black Lake. Now, it seemed as if the entirety of Britain's wizarding community had stuffed itself inside the room, filling it well beyond its maximum capacity of 200. Those that had managed to slip inside before Aurors began turning people away sat squashed together, sardine-like, on the stone steps that ran alongside the benches, their bodies tipped forward, angling for a decent view of the prisoners, and Harry.

Harry, Snape, and Draco were seated in the front row on the left side of the room where the prisoners entered and exited. Harry felt the crowd's eyes on him; he wasn't surprised. Of all the trials, the ones involving him, Draco, and Snape were likely to draw the most attention. However, once the trial started, every eye was on the center of the courtroom as Aurors brought Antonin Dolohov in.

After a recounting of the charges, members of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, or MACUSA, began questioning him, but the Death Eater ignored them, twisting his head around to leer at Draco. His face, scarred from Ginny's Bat-Bogey Hexes, was appalling and unnerving. To avoid Dolohov's rat-like eyes, Draco stared unwaveringly at the MACUSA members.

Harry found the man's gaze unsettling too, but more than that, he found Dolohov's behavior confusing and alarming. Based on the witnesses that had testified so far, Dolohov was sure to get a life sentence or even the Dementor's Kiss. Yet he acted as though he were waiting for the Knight Bus, making Harry wonder if the man's lack of concern might mean there was another traitor amongst the Aurors' ranks, another Billy Loyd poised to free him when the opportunity arose.

Dolohov sat smirking and unrepentant as witness after witness testified about watching Seamus Finnigan die. After only a few minutes into the first witness's account, Harry wanted to leave. He didn't want the ugly details of Seamus's death to be his last memory of the Irish boy.

From what Debra Johns—a sixth-year Ravenclaw—said, Dolohov had enjoyed killing Seamus. Her voice shook as she haltingly described how, in the courtyard that night, Dolohov had forced Seamus to lie face down on the ground before repeatedly driving his boot heel into the back of the boy's neck and head. Dolohov did this all while gleefully telling the others that they were next. After the fourth witness (a Slytherin) told the same story, a stricken-looking MACUSA member asked if there was testimony other than Seamus's death.

Aberforth testified about Dolohov casting the Killing Curse at Harry and Snape the night of the Final Battle. Again, Harry felt the weight of everyone's eyes on him, but he ignored it to focus on Aberforth, reliving the experience with every word the old wizard uttered. He found himself wishing Hermione were there, but he had forbidden her from coming. She'd only agreed after a rather bitter row. Thanks to Draco's intervention, Ron had reluctantly stayed away as well.

The trial ended just before noon with the American Chief of Magical Affairs, Anwir 'Weary' Fridtjof, declaring Dolohov guilty of murder, attempted murder, and several other crimes. Harry had expected it to be an all-day ordeal; he had also expected to be called to testify, but was relieved when he wasn't.

As the courtroom emptied, Brân and one other Auror stood with Harry, Snape, Draco, and Aberforth, prepared to rebuff anyone trying to approach them. People glanced at them or stared as they walked past, but no one seemed intent on engaging them.

"Can't they clear this place any faster?" Draco asked, thin fingers wringing the cuff of his robe.

"A few more minutes and we'll have you out of here," Brân said quietly, his eyes on the thinning crowd.

Harry knocked Draco's knee with his knuckles, getting his attention. Draco looked at him before directing his eyes back towards the entrance. Five minutes later they were the only occupants.

"Check the corridor, Willie," Brân said to the young Auror.

Harry hadn't recognized him until Brân said his name. Before boarding the carriages to leave Hogwarts, Theo had introduced them—although he had used Willie's given name, Selby, because he knew it annoyed Willie. Theo had described Willie as something like an older brother, as they had practically grown up together because Theo's father, Bram, was Willie's godfather.

"On my way," Williamson said, then dashed across the courtroom. Sometime later he reappeared at the entrance and called out: "All clear!"

Brân nodded at him, then he and Williamson ushered Snape, Aberforth, and the boys out of the courtroom, and out of the Ministry.

*SP

 **The Ministry of Magic, Level Ten, Courtroom Ten, July 1997 (23)**

Billy Loyd was as tight-lipped and hostile at his trial as Dolohov had been the day before, but unlike his fellow Death Eater, Loyd never acknowledged Harry, Draco, or Snape. With an Auror on each side, he shuffled into the courtroom, shackled from neck to foot, taking his place in the same chair Dolohov had occupied.

"State your name for the record," said Fridtjof.

"My name is of no concern to you," Loyd replied. "You need only know that, as ever, my loyalties lie with the Dark Lord. I do not recognize your laws or these proceedings." The chains tethering his wrists and ankles rattled as he spoke, each clink an angry emphasis.

Like Dolohov, and a fair number of defendants whose trials followed, Loyd seemed to want to steamroll through the process to get it over with as quickly as possible, and as they had done with Dolohov, the MACUSA obliged. Minutes after the noon hour, fed up with Loyd's reticence, Fridtjof announced that because the accused refused to counter the witnesses' testimonies, the MACUSA had no choice but to declare him guilty.

Loyd reacted by laughing.

The audience, which had been quietly engrossed in the testimonies, erupted, disappointed in yet another abbreviated proceeding. That was the moment when Loyd chose to speak to Harry, Draco, and Snape.

They were again seated in the front row on the left side of the courtroom, but Snape's and Draco's attention was on Harry as they waited for him to get to his feet. He'd had a bad night, but had insisted on attending the trial, eager to see Loyd convicted.

"I'm coming for you," Loyd said, getting their attention. "I'll do you first, Snape, slice you up real nice, maybe take an eye, the way you took mine." He raised his chin and turned his head to the right. While his left eye was a striking cobalt blue, his right one was cloudy, sightless, and dissected by the scar that ran from his eyebrow to his chin. "I won't kill you though," he said, "not 'til after I've had a go at these boys. The little blond whippet there? I'll turn him out so hard he won't be able to scream anything but my name. And Potter…"

Brân, having crossed the room after speaking with Fridtjof, jerked the chains around Loyd's neck, cutting him off mid-threat. "What the fuck were you saying to them?"

"Just my farewells." Loyd laughed as Brân motioned for Proudfoot and Dawlish to take the dark wizard out of the courtroom. He then ordered Williamson to look after Snape and the boys. "Be seeing you." Loyd's scar stretched as he smiled, making it look as if his face were split in two.

"Keep walking, Dementor-bait!" Dawlish growled, giving Loyd a hard shove after noting Harry and Draco's shell-shocked expressions; Snape looked murderous, his lips a thin, bloodless line. "I'll make sure you have three or four of those soul-sucking fuckers looking after you once you're back on that rock!"

Loyd acted as if he hadn't heard, chuckling as he was dragged away. Cameras had been flashing since Fridtjof announced the verdict, but that was the photo that ended up on the front page of that evening's _Prophet_ : a grinning, maniacal-looking Loyd with a horrified Draco and Harry in the background.

"He means it," Harry said. "He's going to get out, if they even manage to get him back to Azkaban."

"He won't," said Snape.

"Sirius did!" Harry nearly shouted at him. "Bellatrix and the Lestranges did!"

Snape stared at him, at a loss for words.

"Potter's right," said Draco.

Snape silently cursed himself. Short of keeping them locked in Hogwarts' dungeons, he had done all he believed possible to keep Harry and Draco safe. Now, with just a few words, Loyd had undone much of what he had worked to build since taking the boys as his own, and of what he had hoped to rebuild since Harry woke up in the hospital ward.

Harry, who never recognized danger until it nearly killed him, believed Loyd would hurt them; and Draco, suspicious of everyone, thanks to his upbringing, also took Loyd at his word because Draco knew a lie when he heard it. Loyd had not been lying, and Snape knew it. This was why he had wanted to avoid the trials.

As Williamson left to check the corridor, Snape heard Harry say, "Dad?"

Snape turned. His heart leapt in horror.

"Da –" Harry began, then he fell to the side. He hadn't made it to his feet yet, so the bench caught him when he collapsed.

"Gods…" Draco said, causing Brân to turn around.

The Auror leaned over, scooped Harry into his arms, then lay him on the floor. He then yanked off his outer robes and shoved them under Harry's head. The second he pulled back, the boy's eyes rolled back into his head and his teeth clenched. Brân stumbled to his feet when Snape knocked him aside. The Potions master knelt down to whisper into Harry's ear. Draco knew what he was saying, but Brân couldn't make it out.

"Brân," Williamson called. He was halfway across the courtroom. "I said the coast is clear, man. What's the holdup?"

Once he noticed that Brân and Draco were looking at something on the floor, he dashed over to see what was going on. "Oh, Merlin!" he said upon seeing Harry. "What can I do?"

"Make sure no one comes in," Brân said.

"On it," Williamson said. "Will he be all right?"

Brân looked up at him. "Go, Willie."

"Yeah, yeah." Williamson jogged slowly back across the room.

The young Auror was tired. They all were, having been run ragged since the battle. Some Aurors had fought at Hogwarts, while others had been engaged in other skirmishes around the country, skirmishes that decimated their numbers. When the fighting ended, rounding up Death Eaters and Voldemort supporters was the Ministry's priority, so Aurors were frequently recalled to duty.

Brân had been called more than most, but when he wasn't hunting Voldemort loyalists, he had spent every spare moment in the Great Hall, staying as close to Snape as he could while the man watched Harry sleep. And although he'd been mortified when it happened, he was glad to have been there when Snape collapsed from exhaustion. It had given him an excuse to hold the man without a sharp word or cold glare directed at him.

Despite Snape's past as a Death Eater, Brân admired him. During the two-year-long Auror program, cadets were required to study Voldemort and his followers, so Brân knew that history, and he knew that the majority of Voldemort's followers had earned the scorn and suspicion of the DMLE, and of the wizarding world. But he'd had a different take on Snape, mostly because Snape had taken over the Potions master post from Horace Slughorn in 1981, Brân's third year.

Many around the school, including Brân's rational Ravenclaw housemates, had whispered about the new Potions master and Head of Slytherin. Some didn't believe he was human; others believed he was only teaching at Hogwarts because he'd turned traitor and needed Dumbledore's protection. Brân had known that Snape was no vampire, and while he had agreed that the man had informed on Voldemort to Dumbledore, he didn't believe Snape had done it to save himself.

As an Auror, Brân's life depended on his ability to gauge people, and he thought himself a good judge of character. Kingsley had said as much when Brân was still a cadet, telling him it was an invaluable skill for an Auror. It's why Brân believed Snape had gone to Dumbledore to try to save someone else. Over the years, Brân had come face-to-face with evil men. He'd always had an immediate, visceral reaction upon meeting them, one that left him cold and afraid. While Snape's harsh attitude was challenging, Brân recognized it as a coping mechanism, because despite the man's clear and utter rejection of Voldemort and his beliefs, Snape was a target of contempt.

The sound of Harry softly responding to Snape refocused Brân's attention. The boy's speech was horribly slurred, but the seizure seemed to be over.

"Is there another way out of here?" Draco asked.

"No," Brân, said. "I'll have to Disillusion you if you want to get Harry out unobserved."

"Yes," Snape said quietly. "Do it."

*SP

 **The Leaky Cauldron, July 1997 (23)**

Back at the Leaky Cauldron, Snape stayed with the boys in their room, watching Harry sleep. Four hours later the Gryffindor woke up. When Snape called, Tom set up a small, round table for them in the room. Thomasin brought up roast beef, mashed potatoes, green salad, and treacle tart soon after.

"Was a bad one, eh?" Harry sheepishly asked as they picked at their food. Draco and Snape had been so quiet during the meal, Harry felt something needed to be said.

"Have any of them been good?" Draco shot back.

"Draco," Snape said, tired.

"Well, I don't think he should be joking about it. It's horrid, watching it. What if one is so bad that he…"

"What?" Harry said. "Dies?"

Draco rounded on him. "Potter, you're not the one who has to watch your eyes rolling into the back of your head, watch you lose your ability to speak, to control your body!"

"That's right, Malfoy! I'm just the one who has to go through it!"

"Enough!" Snape slammed his palm on the table.

"Excuse me." Draco flung his napkin onto the table, then went to throw himself onto his bed and stare at the canopy. A moment later Snape left for his room.

Harry sighed and pushed his plate towards the center of the table. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I just don't know how else to deal with it. I don't want it to be this morbid thing, though, something we don't talk about. I just…I wish it didn't happen, you know?" He sighed again. "I wish I was all right."

"You are," Draco said. "You're alive."

*SP

 **The Leaky Cauldron, July 1997 (24)**

 _ **BILLY LOYD ESCAPES!**_

Harry stared at the _Daily Prophet_ lying on the floor of the narrow hallway outside his and Draco's room. He reread the headline, then watched Aurors Nikolas Proudfoot and John Dawlish dragging Billy Loyd out of Courtroom Ten in the accompanying photo. To avoid the agony of bending over (his body always ached terribly after a seizure), Harry charmed the newspaper to fly into his hand. He then read the first few paragraphs of the story:

 _Billy Loyd, a former Ministry Auror, and alleged Death Eater, went missing from the Ministry last evening, moments after leaving the courtroom whilst Aurors prepared to return him to Azkaban. Loyd's trial ended Tuesday afternoon after he was found guilty of attacking Hogwarts students in Hogsmeade last February, and of sabotaging the Ministry's Floos during the Final Battle at Hogwarts in June. The Aurors responsible for transporting Loyd to Azkaban claim to have been immobilized by a curse seconds before Loyd disappeared._

" _He shouldn't have been in prison anyway," said a wizard who refused to offer his name, yet identified himself as an acquaintance of Loyd's. "He masqueraded as a Death Eater to help the Ministry's fight against the Dark Lo…er, You-Know-Who."_

 _The wizard went on to mention former Death Eaters Bram Nott and Severus Snape: "Nott says he turned coat. Snape claims the same. Spying for the Order. If you can believe it of those two, why not of Billy Loyd?"_

 _When asked for a response, Hog's Head proprietor and witness to the Hogsmeade assault, Aberforth Dumbledore, said: "I was there when Loyd attacked those children, when he fired curses at my grandson, Harry, and marked my boy, Severus. Anyone who claims he was working both sides is delusional, or just damn stupid."_

Harry stopped reading. He wasn't surprised. He couldn't even pretend to be because people like Loyd and Lucius Malfoy always found a way out. He looked at the photo again. Inexplicably, the _Prophet's_ editors had used the same photo from the front page of yesterday's evening edition with the headline _**LIFE!**_ flashing above it.

Harry let the paper float to the floor, then closed his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb. Gods, he wanted to go home.

*SP

 **London, July 1997 (24)**

Later that morning, Harry met with a solicitor at Burkes, Fleischmann, and Borgin.

One evening after dinner in the Great Hall, Andromeda Tonks approached him about buying Grimmauld Place. Harry had thought it odd, but after talking with her, he reconsidered. He hadn't planned on living there or doing anything with it except perhaps letting it become even more decrepit, but he still found that he'd had to think about it. Sirius had willed that house to him. It was a gift—one that was run-down, infested by dark magic, and inhabited by a demented house-elf—but still a gift, and Harry never took gifts for granted.

Harry first met Andromeda the evening he and Snape were making their way back to the dungeons after Dumbledore's funeral. He hadn't seen her amongst the crowd at the service, but as she approached them, he'd had to tamp down a white-hot burst of fear and anger. She was the spitting image of her eldest sister, Bellatrix. Andromeda had chestnut colored hair instead of black, gray eyes instead of violet, but other than that, she could have been Bellatrix's twin.

After Snape made the introductions, Harry was relieved to find that the sisters' personalities miles different. Bellatrix had worn her madness and hatred like a badge of honor; Andromeda exuded warmth, but she had an edge about her, too. Harry suspected her time at the Riddle House might have something to do with that. Or it might not. Regardless, like other survivors of the battle, Andromeda seemed skittish, guarded. Her eyes took in her surroundings all at once as she sized people up, trying to determine if they were a threat.

The night they spoke, she reminisced about summers at Grimmauld Place spent looking after her young cousins. Regulus, quiet and reserved, had preferred being on his own, leaving her and Sirius to become close during those visits. Despite the eight-year age gap, they had a lot in common.

Contrary to her parents' wishes, Andromeda had wanted to live on her own before getting married—if she got married—and she had wanted a career, possibly as a healer or teacher. Like Sirius, she hadn't wanted anything to do with carrying on the tradition of marrying another Pure-blood to ensure that the Black bloodline remain _Toujours Pur._ This was especially true once she met Ted Tonks.

Days before Sirius fled the manor for good, a screech owl from Andromeda's father, Cygnus, delivered a note declaring that Andromeda was dead to them. Sirius had laughed himself sick when his father burned Andromeda's name off the family tapestry. With one stroke, Andromeda had joined the ranks of the disowned, her name charred because she had married a Mudblood.

"My beautiful cousin is free and living amongst Muggles with her Muggle-born husband, like a proper blood-traitor," a grinning Sirius had told James after moving into the Potters' home.

Andromeda had felt mortified and betrayed when she learned that Bellatrix had killed him. She and her sister hadn't been particularly close, and they hadn't spoken for years, since before Bellatrix was jailed, but they were still sisters, and Sirius, their cousin.

"Nymphadora mentioned how close you and Sirius had become," Andromeda had told Harry as they sat in Snape's sitting room. "I'd wanted to contact you after that night, after the fight at the Ministry, but Dumbledore discouraged it. And then with Nymphadora and Ted… I just lost track. In November, I got involved with the Order and took on looking after the children, and then the kidnapping…"

"Don't," Harry said, "Please, I understand. Sirius never had much to say about his family—that was nice, at least. He only ever spoke well of his friends. But he said you were his favorite cousin."

Andromeda laughed, a husky sound that reminded Harry of Tonks. "He, James, and Remus, they were ridiculously close. I must say, I was a bit hurt when he stopped writing to me after his first year. I never knew what he was getting up to or how he was getting on. I suppose I was too much of a reminder of what he wanted to forget. James, Peter, and Remus, they didn't have that baggage of being family."

Harry understood Sirius well in that moment. He knew what it meant to choose a family instead of being forced to live with the cruelty of others simply because they shared a bloodline.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, at a loss for something else meaningful to say.

"Oh, darling, don't be," Andromeda said, patting his hand. "It was ages ago, and family history is not the only reason I want the manor. Now that I have Stella, Frannie, and Jack to look after, I want a fresh start in a different place."

Stella, Frannie, and Jack had been among the children held captive at the Riddle House. Their parents had been killed before the Final Battle, but neither Dumbledore, Snape, nor Andromeda thought it helpful to mention it during their captivity. Harry met them a few days after Andromeda broached the topic of buying the manor.

Stella and Jack, both six years of age, had been soft-spoken and withdrawn. They held hands, clinging to one another as if afraid they might be forcibly separated. Stella's mother, Janice, had gone missing the same day as Stella while the girl was walking home from school; Janice's body was found two days later about a mile from the Riddle House. Jack's parents had been killed in the cellar of the Riddle House, a rotting wood floor separating them from their son as they were tortured for information they didn't have by Death Eaters who had mistaken them for Order members.

Frannie, aged ten, had been more talkative, but in a nervous sort of way, as if silence frightened her. Her older sister, Jocelyn, had been her guardian since their mother died while giving birth to Frannie. Jocelyn had been fiercely outspoken against Voldemort, and as a writer for _The Quibbler,_ like Xenophilious Lovegood, she had been jailed in Nurmengard, but unlike Xenophilious, she hadn't survived it.

As Andromeda and Harry emerged from Borgin's office, Snape held out his arm, prompting her to loop her free hand through it. Her walking-stick tapped lightly against the floor as she moved. She had a limp, thanks to a Death Eater's curse hurling her through a broken window of the Riddle House the night of the Final Battle.

Snape's dark eyes scanned her face. "You're looking well."

Andromeda smiled. "Then why are you eyeing me as if you expect me to keel over in a dead faint?" she said as they continued down the corridor to where Draco was walking toward them.

"Habit."

Andromeda laughed. "Draco, darling," she said, reaching for the boy as he approached.

"Aunt Andromeda, you look beautiful." Draco stepped forward to kiss her lightly on the cheek.

"Charming thing," she said, kissing him back. "Well, now that Harry and I have finished up our dull bit of business, I would so love to treat you to lunch. Nymphadora and I used to go to Yalla Yalla when she had the time to spare. It's a Muggle restaurant, and it's absolutely divine."

"Another time perhaps?" Draco said. "I have to sign off on the documents concerning Mother's estate this afternoon."

"Oh!" Andromeda brought a hand to her chest. "Well, darling, I know you have Severus and Harry to support you, but would you like me to go along as well?"

"Thank you, but, no. It's something I'd rather do on my own."

"If you wish," she said, with a concerned frown.

"Perhaps, you and the children will have dinner with us at the cottage, soon," Snape said.

Andromeda smiled. "Oh, Severus, that would be lovely. Thank you. Erm, before you go." She pulled Snape to the side, out of earshot of the boys. "Loyd…"

Snape ran a hand over his face.

"When You-Know-Who returned, Narcissa contacted me," Andromeda said. "I hadn't heard from my sister since the day Ted and I eloped. When I received her letter, I tried not to think about how deeply desperate she much have been to write it. Granted, my sisters and I weren't what most people would consider close, and while I'm not proud of who they chose to marry and how they chose to live their lives, they were my sisters, my family. Narcissa…she loved her son, and if anything happened to her, he was supposed to come to me. Now," Andromeda raised a hand when Snape opened his mouth to speak, "I quite understand why you took him in, and why he's so attached to you, but, Severus, he's…he's so terribly vulnerable, what with Lucius on the run, and people still have their horrid, ridiculous prejudices. I worry."

"You've every right to, you're his aunt. But he's _my_ son, Andromeda, and I'll do what I must to keep him safe."

Andromeda squeezed his hand. "I've no doubt of that, truly. And anyway, he's of age, legally bound to no one. Even if he weren't, I don't see the use in fighting about it." She sighed. "Thanks to Lucius, he hardly knows me... But, if he needs anything, and I mean anything, Severus, I want to know."

"Of course."

Andromeda looked back to see Harry and Draco near the lift where Brân was standing sentry. Harry said something that made Draco smile.

"Loyd had inside help, didn't he?" she said.

"Shacklebolt is looking into it."

Andromeda snorted softly. "Indeed. Well, the last thing he needs is to have everyone questioning his judgment, especially as Loyd—along with my daughter—was one of _his_ recruits." The mention of Kingsley seemed to irritate her. "Regardless, you know…I've been wondering if the Order shouldn't continue."

Snape raised his brows. "Is that why you want Grimmauld Place?"

"You think me ridiculous for considering it?"

"No."

Andromeda sighed. "Mostly I want it for the children. If it's as dark and forbidding as I remember, perhaps I can do something with it, make it less gloomy, more habitable. I-I can't be at the house I shared with Ted, where we raised Nymphadora. Ted died there… It's too much, and the manor, well, no one else outside of the remaining Order members knows about it. I imagine it continues to be one of the best-kept secrets, if not _the_ best-kept secret, in the wizarding world."

"Mm."

"As for Shacklebolt—I don't mean to give the impression that he's not up for being the minister. Nymphadora respected him, got on well with him, I believe, but, do you trust him?"

"I trust three people. Two of them are my sons."

Andromeda gave him a grim smile, then nodded.

"What are you two so serious about?" Draco asked, coming to stand beside his aunt.

"Dinner plans," she said and enveloped him in a hug.

"Oh?"

Andromeda released Draco and looked at him. "Once the children and I are settled, we'll have you all over for dinner."

"That sounds lovely," Draco said, "but that's not what you were talking about."

"Well, what do you imagine we were discussing?"

"Loyd's escape," said Harry, from beside Snape.

Andromeda sighed. "Guilty," she said. "But I've every hope he'll be recaptured and that he'll get what he deserves."

Harry's right eyebrow shot upward. "I don't."

Andromeda looked him, then at Snape. "Huh. The resemblance is uncanny," she said, then turned her attention back to Draco. "That's good," she said.

Confused, Draco said, "What?"

"You can't abide a liar," Andromeda said. "And you're not a child. I've no right to treat you like one. Forgive me?"

"Of course."

"Perhaps you'll come and spend a few days with me and the children so you all can get to know one another? Nymphadora… well, you and she never spent any time together."

"I'd love to, really, but there's so much to do. Summer's been shortened and school…"

"Of course, darling. It's simply something to think about."

"Come to my birthday party next week," Harry said. "Stay longer than just for dinner."

"Severus?" Andromeda said.

Snape nodded.

"Thank you, Harry. It's very kind of you to offer." Harry blushed when she kissed his cheek. "Well, you look after one another, all right?" Andromeda gave Harry a gentle hug, then kissed and hugged Draco again.

"Always," Draco said.

*SP


	6. Chapter 6

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **The Ministry of Magic, Level Two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, London, July 1997 (24)** **… _9:40 a.m._**

The morning of their final day in the city, Snape floo'd to the Ministry. He'd been summoned by Mason Gumboil. Gumboil, a former Auror and Hit Wizard, was now the Interim Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He claimed he needed Snape's version of his interactions with Andromeda Tonks at the Riddle House for the public record.

Snape arrived twenty minutes before he and Gumboil were supposed to meet, but the Auror didn't open his office door until 10:47 a.m.—forty-seven minutes after their scheduled meet time.

"P-P-Professor Snape?" said Gumboil's secretary, her stutter triggered by her embarrassment at her boss's behavior. She had dutifully offered Snape tea after he'd been waiting ten minutes, twenty, and then thirty. Her stutter had worsened each time, despite how politely he'd refused, hoping to put her at ease. "He'll s-s-see you n-now."

Snape nodded and got to his feet. He was livid, but he knew it would be pointless, possibly dangerous to show it.

According to Kingsley, Gumboil had not been the first choice to head up the DMLE. The battle had created a dearth of seasoned Aurors who possessed enough practical experience to lead the department, and as Kingsley couldn't simultaneously serve as the Minister of Magic and acting head of the DMLE until a more agreeable head was found, the selection committee had settled on Gumboil—and he knew it. He also knew that they had no real expectation of him getting anything done. Consequently, he'd decided that so long as he was able, he aimed to take advantage of the privileges his position allowed, including ordering Snape to the Ministry.

Despite having never met Snape, Gumboil—like his dead mentor and hero, Alastor Moody—despised and mistrusted the Potions master. Snape had no prior knowledge of the man, but he had dealt with men like Gumboil all his life. During the run-up to, and after their arrival in London, the old Auror had made an absolute nuisance of himself.

Gumboil's first summons came a week after Harry woke from his coma, information Snape chose not to share with Harry and Draco. Then, once the trials were scheduled, Gumboil had demanded that Snape forgo the trials to make himself available for questioning early Monday morning. When Snape refused, offering to make time later in the week, subsequent summons threatened him with fines, travel and employment sanctions, and ultimately, jail. But, again, Snape knew that men like Gumboil often resorted to impotent threats because they either lacked the authority or, most often, the audacity to carry out those threats.

After getting wind of his behavior, Kingsley called a meeting with Gumboil. When asked about the encounter, the minister's secretary had denied overhearing Kingsley threaten Gumboil with castration—" _Political_ castration," Suzy clarified—if he didn't drop the power trip. After, Kingsley sent word to the Leaky Cauldron assuring Snape that meeting with Gumboil wouldn't take long.

"Snape," Gumboil said, eyes still on the parchment he was supposedly perusing.

"Gumboil," Snape drawled.

Gumboil looked up. "That's Auror Gumboil, Snape."

"Ah, well, if we're observing the courtesies, do call me Professor, or Deputy Headmaster."

Gumboil scowled. His bushy, unruly brows shifted, giving him the appearance of great horned owl. "As you're here to answer questions related to your connections with You-Know-Who, I'll call you whatever I damn well please. Be grateful I'm sticking with Snape."

Snape settled on the chair in front of Gumboil's desk. Other than the one Gumboil was using, it was the only chair in the room. Flimsy and made of pine, it was foldable with no arms. It had a single one-inch slat along the top of the backrest, which left a wide-open gap between the slat and the seat. In short, it was more a torture device than a piece of furniture, which Snape assumed was the point, but he was no stranger to discomfort. He crossed his legs and rested his loosely clasped hands against his stomach as if he were reclining on a throne.

"Shacklebolt probably told you this wouldn't take long," Gumboil said, through his equally unruly mustache, "but it'll take as long as it takes, understand?"

"Perfectly," Snape said.

Gumboil narrowed his eyes as if he'd expected a different reaction. Snape sighed inwardly. He knew that regardless of what he said, Gumboil's attitude would likely be as nasty at the end of the meeting as it was right now. He consoled himself with the knowledge that the sooner the meeting was over, the sooner he and the boys could leave London.

They had wanted to come with him.

"No," Snape had said. "When I return, be ready to leave."

Harry balked. "Why can't we come with you, then leave together?"

"It'll be easier for me to get in and out alone, Harry," Snape said. "Few people, if any, will want to stop me. If you're with me, there might be no end to people wanting to talk."

Harry had reluctantly agreed.

"Right, then," Gumboil muttered. He shuffled a few pieces of parchment, then using his wand, tapped a crane feather quill, which jerked upright so that its tip settled against a fresh sheet of parchment. "When did you first go the Riddle House?"

The quill scratched out what Snape assumed were Gumboil's words.

"November, after the _Prophet_ reported that Andromeda Tonks had been taken."

"Mrs. Tonks was your contact within the house?"

"She was."

"You had a relationship with her prior to these meetings?"

"We knew of each other but had never met."

"Any notable contacts amongst the Death Eaters?"

"Bram Nott. Charles Davis when Nott was unable to meet."

Gumboil chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Charles Davis, eh? Another turncoat – Oh, don't think I agreed with anything that gray-skinned freak stood for, but in for a penny, in for a pound. You either believe in something or you don't. All these _former_ Death Eaters switching sides. Must have been hard to keep track."

"I wouldn't know. I dealt solely with Davis and Nott."

"Why did Dumbledore trust you to do it?"

"I've never pretended to know Dumbledore's mind, particularly regarding matters of trust. Perhaps you should visit his portrait at Hogwarts. I'm sure he would happily provide you with a satisfactory answer. He does so enjoy scintillating conversation."

Gumboil cleared his throat. "What sorts of inroads did you make once you were back amongst your old Death Eater chums?"

"Obviously I'd hoped to gather vital information regarding the Dark Lord's plans. However, I proved to be more helpful to Andromeda and the children. They quickly became my main concern."

Gumboil chuckled darkly. "'The Dark Lord', eh? You say it with such ease, Snape. Hard habit to be rid of, yeah?"

"That is how I came to know him, just as I came to know Dumbledore as Headmaster Dumbledore, and you as Gumboil."

Gumboil reddened. "Don't get cheeky with me, boy!"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I'll have your arse in Azkaban before you can catch your next breath!"

"As you say." Snape plucked a bit of lint from his sleeve and flicked it onto the floor.

Gumboil slammed his palm against the desk, making the note-taking quill jump. He pointed a finger at Snape. "You think you're untouchable, don't you? Harry Potter's guardian, an acquaintance of the new minister. Got the goddamned head of Hogwarts, old and new to vouch for you if you ask! Yeah, after all you've done, you've got it made, don't you?"

Snape lifted his shoulder in a little shrug. "I've little reason to complain about my life. If there's nothing else, I need to go collect my sons."

"Speaking of…" Gumboil leaned forward in his chair. "You spent last summer with Harry Potter?"

"I did."

"He's a, er, good-looking lad. Yeah, when that business happened back in '81, his family's pictures were all over the paper. If I recall, his mother, Lily, was quite the looker, wasn't she? Hair the color of fire, yeah? But he looks just like his father, James, doesn't he?"

"Do you have any other questions about Andromeda or the Riddle House?"

"Before you spirited Potter away last summer, by all accounts, you two hated one another. But when you returned, you decided to adopt him. Why such a drastic change of heart? What went on all those months you two were gone?"

"I trained him, per Dumbledore's orders."

"Training, eh?" Gumboil's eyes turned flinty. "Anything, er, inappropriate go on between you and the boy? I mean, before you came back from wherever it was you went, your relationship with Potter—to hear people tell it—was damn near toxic."

Snape said nothing.

"Yeah, good-looking lad, Potter. I can see why you'd, ah, take him under your wing."

Snape stared at Gumboil, outwardly unemotional as the old wizard stared back, his expression greedy, ugly, and knowing. Nearly two minutes passed before Gumboil, realizing Snape wasn't going to say anything, snatched up the sheet of parchment the quill had been scratching on.

"How many people did your Dark Lord order you to kill over the last year?"

"None. I was relegated to menial tasks, such as guarding Andromeda and the children. The persona I employed barely ranked."

"Isn't it true that Dumbledore had no idea you'd been leaving Hogwarts?"

"No."

"So, he knew?"

"I believe he suspected."

Gumboil leaned back in his chair, resting his clasped hands on his stomach, mirroring Snape's stance. "How many people did you kill before you went running to Dumbledore back in '81?"

"What has that to do with –"

"Might give me a clue about your decision-making of late."

Snape sighed softly. "Would you say you're better equipped to make certain decisions now than when you were eighteen?"

"My grandparents raised me, and they were convinced I'd wind up in Azkaban before I turned seventeen." Gumboil shrugged. "I didn't, but they weren't wrong to worry. I was a bit of a villain back then. Drank too much, fought too much, skived off school too much—damn near got tossed out of Hogwarts.

"I wasn't the only one, and bloody hell, what else is there to do but stir up a bit of shite now and again at that age, eh? But we grow up, don't we? Become men, better men. Yet, there's plenty of blokes my age that are still so crooked they can't be made straight. Maybe they been that way since their da squirted them into their mam, maybe they learned it on the street, I don't know. But I do know that as villainous as I was back then, I wouldn't have taken anyone's life for a soulless, snake-faced killer who fancied himself to be superior."

"How nice for you," Snape said. He hadn't murdered anyone for Voldemort, either. Peter Pettigrew had been the first person he'd killed, but he'd be damned if he'd confess that to this lecher.

"When I was an Auror, I never cared why You-Know-Who tortured and killed, only that he did. Then in 1975, November, your mates butchered my grandparents in Belfast during one of their Death Eater routs. After that, you might say I acquired a rather deep, er, dislike for your Dark Lord and his disciples.

"I'll admit, every time we managed to bring one in, the urge to do something more than just bring them in was strong, but that's all I did, I brought them in. But, if someone else wanted to take out a little private justice on them we caught, I never stopped them."

"I am sorry for your loss, but in November 1975, I was fifteen, and I was in Scotland, studying for my O.W.L.s."

"My gran, she'd get letters about me from Headmaster Fortescue, and she'd say, 'Mase, you lie down with dogs, you're sure to get up with fleas.'" Gumboil shrugged. "She wasn't wrong. Goblins mix with other goblins, giants mix with other giants, and murderers, well murderers have the not so uncanny habit of mixing with other murderers. And, the way I see it, if you happen to be there when the murdering is going on, you're just as guilty as them that did it."

"I see now why your opportunities within the DMLE were—limited," Snape said, tired of Gumboil's homilies. "But I imagine you must feel a great sense of vindication now, despite the fleeting nature of the position."

Gumboil's face turned deep purple as his lips stretched into a bloodless line against his teeth.

Snape went on. "If there's nothing else." He shifted to get up.

"I can see how it must have been useful to have a Death Eater spy on hand, but why, when your cover had been so spectacularly blown last June did you choose to, essentially, pick up where you'd left off?"

Snape eased back onto his chair. "Despite the presence of Nott and Davis, I knew I could be helpful, particularly after Andromeda Tonks and a number of children went missing."

"People had gone missing since as far back as the Battle at the Department of Mysteries."

"True, but by then I had my son to consider."

Gumboil chuckled, a gruff, unamused sound. "Your _son_. His parents must be spinning in their graves." When Snape didn't respond, Gumboil continued: "They were part of the Order of the Phoenix, weren't they? Yeah, the Order, it was a pretty odd bunch of witches and wizards, yeah? For instance, Sirius Black, a convicted murderer, he was, but he was a member, wasn't he? The first time around, and then more recently. But he died last June, at the Ministry, didn't he? He died because you failed to keep him away from there, didn't you?"

Snape paled. Gumboil smiled, thrilled that something had finally rattled the man. He watched Snape's jaw clench, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He took a particular interest when Snape balled his hands into fists. The Auror imagined it was as much a protective move as one to inflict harm.

"What does anything that happened at the Ministry that night have to do with the Riddle House?" Snape said.

The Deputy Headmaster's silky inflection was gone, Gumboil noted with satisfaction. His smugness had waned, and his eyes—shrewd and black as a starless night—had clouded over with what seemed like regret. Gumboil didn't care.

"Nothing at all," he said, "yet it does provide a bit of context from which I can make a sound judgment."

"I am not here to be judged. I'm here to give an account of my time at the Riddle –"

"You know, I've read some of Moody's old files. While he may not have looked it, he was a meticulous fellow. He kept notes from old Order meetings, including who Order members met with when they thought their movements were of no interest to anyone. It seems that you and Black –"

Snape shifted to get up, again. "You've obviously run out of pertinent questions."

"On the contrary, Snape, I have a parchment full of questions for you. Tell me, how long did you and Black –"

Snape got to his feet.

Gumboil stood as well. "We're not done here, Snape."

"Unless you wish to discuss more about my time at the Riddle House, then, yes, we are done."

"Look here, boy! I'm the one who decides when we're done!"

A knock sounded at the door, drawing both wizards' attention. Kingsley pushed the door open.

"The hell is going on in here?" he asked, his black eyes on Gumboil.

Gumboil cleared his throat. "I was telling Snape here that I still have a few more questions."

Kingsley looked over at Snape. "Severus," he said, with a nod.

"Minister."

Kingsley had just finished meeting with the officials from the allied nations assisting with the Death Eater trials. While he appeared utterly relaxed, he radiated power, and the royal blue fabric of his formal robes complemented his coffee-colored skin beautifully.

Gumboil's mouth filled with bile. He believed Kingsley had been elected, not because of his skill or experience at governing, but because of that damn coffee-colored skin and dazzling grin. Granted, he knew how to talk to people, how to rally them, put them at ease, but that hardly qualified someone to head up a government. Gumboil had always found the hand-shaking and ego-stroking excruciating.

Back when it mattered, he'd been out in the field doing real Auror work, not playing spy with Dumbledore and his little fellowship of self-righteous rabble-rousers. Like Moody, Gumboil didn't care much for people, but unlike Moody, he had no friends, no one to vouch for his character. He knew that Brân Savage had been Kingsley's and the selection committee's first choice to head up the DMLE. He also knew that Savage had begged off, eager to head up the detail assigned to Snape, Harry, and Draco.

"How are the boys?" Kingsley said to Snape.

"They're well, thank you."

"I meant to stop by and see you all before the trials, but it's just been like trying to herd cats around here."

"You needn't explain."

Kingsley swallowed. "We'll find Loyd, Severus. We won't rest until we bring him in."

"I've no doubt. If that's all?" Snape turned to Gumboil.

"You're free to go," said Kingsley when Gumboil opened his mouth.

"I'm not done with him yet!"

"Yes, you are," said Kingsley. His basso voice rang menacingly as he stepped aside so that Snape could pass.

"Good day, Minister; Gumboil," Snape said.

Gumboil shook with fury.

*SP

 **The Leaky Cauldron, London, Harry and Draco's Room, July 1997 (24)… _12:07 p.m._**

Draco opened the door when Snape knocked.

"Are you ready?" he said.

"Yes, but Potter's not feeling well."

Harry lay curled up, asleep on his bed, his skin pale, his eyes ringed by dark circles. He hadn't slept soundly the night before, his body restless and achy, and his mind racing with images of Snape being dragged from the Ministry and taken to Azkaban. Lost in that nightmare, he had screamed, waking Snape and Draco. Brân had raced up the stairs from the pub where he'd been keeping watch and chatting with Tom as Tom and Jenny cleaned up.

Fang's head lay over Harry's feet. His big brown eyes shifted as he watched Snape approach.

"Was it another seizure?" Snape said, settling beside Harry.

"No. He just complained of being tired."

Snape nodded. "If he's feeling up to it, we'll leave when he wakes."

"He'll be an absolute tit when he realizes we're still here," Draco said.

"Yes." Snape ran a hand over Harry's stubbly head, then got to his feet.

"How was it? The Ministry?" Draco said. He had moved to stand next to the window, looking out at the bit of Diagon Alley he could see. Construction wizards were at work, clearing debris. There was more activity today than Draco had noticed all week. He wondered what had changed.

"It was as you might expect," Snape said, startling Draco, who hadn't realized that the man had come to stand next to him.

The young Slytherin looked as exhausted as Harry. For the thousandth time, Snape questioned coming to London and letting them attend the trials. He should have ignored Kingsley's and the DMLE's requests and just gone on to Soth-ince.

"You were gone longer than you said you would be."

"Mm."

"Regretting coming to London?" Draco said, realizing Snape wasn't going to elaborate on his trip to the Ministry.

"Yes."

Draco looked over at Harry. "And Potter?"

"Once we're home, I believe he'll feel better."

"We shouldn't have come here."

"No."

"And now Loyd is free."

"He can't hurt us."

"Can't he?" Draco said, his gray eyes angry and fearful as he stared up at Snape.

Snape placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed gently. When he pulled Draco into his arms, the boy resisted at first, then closed his eyes and pressed his face into Snape's chest.

*SP


	7. Chapter 7

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (25)** **…** _ **7:12 p.m.**_

The instant Harry felt the road beneath his feet, he opened his eyes. Surprised to have escaped the disorientation and nausea he often felt after Apparating, he took stock. Satisfied that he still had ten fingers, ten toes and all the rest, he looked around, waiting. When Draco popped into view a few feet away from him, his grip on his walking-stick eased. Snape, gripping Fang's collar, appeared seconds later.

As the warm southerly breeze washed over him, Harry wondered if it had missed him as much as he had missed it. Even Fang paused, his big tongue lolling, tasting the sea on the wind as it blew his ears back on his head. Then he barked and took off, loping through the grasses until he reached the top of the hill. He stopped when he felt the magic marking the entrance to the valley below.

"Where's the house?" Draco said, disappointment coloring his words.

"Just over the hill," Harry said, turning to look at him.

"How are you feeling?" Snape eyed Harry critically.

"Fine."

"The descent is steep and it's late…"

"You should have woken me when you got back from the Ministry," Harry muttered. He ignored Snape's irritated sigh and jabbed his walking-stick into the ground.

Fang shot back down to meet him when Harry started up the hill. He stayed by the boy's side, patiently pacing his steps to keep time with the Gryffindor, allowing Harry to use him to balance himself whenever he felt wobbly. The hill was modest, nothing an adventurous three-year-old couldn't easily master, but Harry had to stop midway to catch his breath and wait for the cramping in his legs to ease.

Harry adored the walking-stick Aberforth had given him, but he couldn't wait to be rid of it. He longed to walk more than twenty-five steps without fear of losing his footing or becoming so exhausted he needed more than just the walking-stick. He longed to run and jump without having to brace himself against the shooting pains that spiked through his bones the second his feet hit the ground. He longed for his body to be the way it was before he fell out of the sky.

Sometimes it seemed as if that fall had happened ages ago. Other times he dreamed he was still asleep in the hospital wing, hooked up to that breathing machine, his head pinned in place by that harness. Those times he woke up panicked and sweating, crying out for Snape.

Now that they were at Soth-ince, Harry hoped he'd find peace amidst the familiarity of the cottage and the valley. Sensing the shift in the boy's mood, Fang whined and licked his hand, then nudged Harry's hip with his shoulder.

Harry gave him a wan smile. "Almost there, eh?" Fang _woofed_ in agreement. "C'mon, let's show those Slytherins how it's done."

Snape and Draco had lagged behind since starting up the hill. At the top, Harry stood waiting for them, beads of sweat coating his brow, his breathing labored. His right arm shook with exhaustion and his legs felt like rubber.

"See?" he said, trying, but failing to calm his breaths once they arrived. "Made it."

"Congratulations," Snape said, sounding deeply unimpressed. "However, you won't be going the rest of way on foot."

"But I…"

"No!" Snape said. "I've allowed you to run roughshod over me since the moment you asked for a walker, those crutches, then began strutting about with that walking-stick! No more. You are _not_ walking down this hill and you are _not_ walking across that valley. Do I make myself clear?"

Harry opened his mouth, a sharp retort at the ready, but he swallowed his words when Snape's right eyebrow shot upward.

"Yes, sir. But…"

"Shut up!" Snape snapped, then searched the ground. After a moment, he crouched down and picked up a leaf. "Go on," he told Harry, gesturing toward the valley.

Without a word, Harry disappeared over the boundary, followed by Fang and Draco. Once Snape crossed over, he opened his palm, muttered an incantation, then blew the leaf he'd collected into the air. As a puff of wind caught its edge, it transformed into a rectangular shaped carpet. After a few test passes, the rug zoomed down to hover next to Harry's knees.

"Get on," Snape said.

The man still sounded a bit cross, so again, without a word, Harry did as he was told. He would have preferred using his broom, but he didn't dare say so.

"If you want to fly ahead, go on," Snape said.

Harry shifted to lie on his stomach. Loosely gripping the front edge of the carpet, he zipped forward. "Whoa!" He tightened his grip, surprised at how intuitive the carpet was.

After getting his bearings, he made a loop, hooting as he went. Fang leapt at the carpet, trying to nip its fringe to bring it down. Harry made another loop, then came round to float alongside the boarhound.

"C'mon, boy!" Harry patted the rug and waited for Fang to get on, but the dog balked. "C'mon, it's okay." Harry crooned.

After giving the carpet a sniff, Fang put his forepaws on it, then slowly brought the rest of his body along. Harry waited patiently, as patiently as Fang had been during the trek up the hill. His long legs shook, not entirely convinced of the carpet's stability, even though it didn't give an inch under his weight when Harry urged it up.

"S'okay, boy. Just relax." Fang licked Harry's face and gingerly settled beside him, still eyeing the carpet suspiciously. Harry steered the rug, taking it higher; Fang whined and scooted closer to Harry. "S'okay. I won't let anything happen to you. I promise. Let's go see my tree, eh?"

Snape and Draco watched him swerve smoothly to the left towards a tree that looked like a bent old woman.

"He's going to kill himself," Draco said.

"He'll be all right." Snape looked over at Draco.

Draco caught his eye, then looked away. "Don't. I'm fine, really."

"The other night you had a nightmare. What was it about?"

"I don't remember."

"Draco…"

"Please. I was tired… I'm still tired, especially after being in London all week…"

"We will talk about this, when you're ready."

"You needn't worry about me," Draco said, feeling Snape's eyes on him as they walked.

"Don't be silly."

They walked in silence, their arms occasionally brushing. When they reached the cottage, Draco said, "Quaint."

Snape sighed. "Draco, if you're going to be unhappy here, perhaps Andromeda…"

Draco frowned. "That's not…"

"I had hoped this place would be a refuge for you, as it is for Harry."

"This is home for him."

"Yes."

"I don't…" Draco began. "Never mind. Anything I say will just make me sound like an ungrateful beast."

"Speak."

Draco sighed. "I should like it here. You're here, Potter... But I miss the castle. I miss Blaise, Pansy, Theo…"

"They'll all be here in a few days. Your Mr. Weasley shall arrive even before them."

"I know. It's fine; _I'm_ fine, really."

"So you've said. _Corage_ is the password."

" _Corage,_ " Draco muttered. Nothing happened. The cast iron latch didn't click, and the door didn't swing open as it had done for Harry last summer. Draco tried depressing the latch to open the door. It didn't budge. "Did I say it wrong?"

"No." Snape frowned.

"Does this mean I'm not allowed inside?" Draco said, a bitter edge to his tone.

"Don't be ridiculous!" Snape barked. "Try it again."

" _Corage_."

The door remained shut, amplifying the silence and the stillness as the two Slytherins watched and waited.

"Shall I erect a shack in the paddock?" Draco said.

"Stop it! Without the password, you must be invited in."

"Lovely. That should do wonders for my reputation as a vampire."

Snape blinked. "You've been accused of being a vampire?"

"No, but considering everything my family did in the name of keeping bloodlines pure, it wouldn't be so hard to believe, would it?"

Snape opened the door. "Come inside."

Draco glanced back at the rowan. "Potter?"

"Yes?"

Draco looked up at Snape and shook his head. "You charmed that carpet to signal you if he found trouble, didn't you?"

"Charmed it? I cursed it with sentience. Should he have a hunger pang, stub his toe, or be struck by lightning as he flies around on that thing, it shall suffer the same, a thousand times over."

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (25)**

An hour later, just as the sun slipped from sight, Harry threw open the door, red-cheeked and smiling, the rug tucked under his arm.

"Thanks for the magic carpet!" he said to Snape, who was sitting at his desk, quill scratching across a sheet of parchment.

"I live to serve," Snape said dryly.

Harry closed the door after Fang passed through. "Where's Draco?"

"In his room."

"His room? This place only has two bedrooms."

"And a rather large attic."

"Oh..."

Harry hadn't minded sharing the bedroom in Snape's quarters at the castle, but he loved his room here at the cottage and frankly wanted it all to himself. Not to mention it was a tight fit anyway. Introducing another person into it would be impossible. Well, not impossible, they were wizards, but Harry was thrilled to have his own space in this place he loved so much.

He looked around. The first time he'd seen the sitting room, sunlight had been spilling over everything. Now, a whitish-yellow glow from the wall sconces illuminated it. The sight of Fang's big window, the oversized sofa, Snape's toffee-colored club chair, the tattered old arm chair, and the coffee table sitting atop the oval rug with four monkeys all reinforced how good it felt to be home.

He had wanted to watch the stars twinkle into sight from a spot at the northwest edge of the oak grove, but the carpet had had other ideas. As soon as the sun touched the horizon, the rug started edging towards the cottage, ignoring Harry yanking on it to make it stay put. He quickly realized that Snape had charmed the thing to bring him back once the sun began to set.

He probably could have forced it to do what he wanted, but he cheered himself with the knowledge that he still had all of August to stay out late to watch the night come on—and his birthday was only three days away. After that, he could use his magic as much as he liked. Because it was untraceable, he could use it now (and had done for minor tasks like fetching the _Prophet_ ), but he'd made a vow to himself to wait. He'd be an adult soon enough, a fact he knew bothered Snape.

Harry had never seen himself as a wide-eyed innocent. Living with the Dursleys and battling Voldemort since the age of eleven had put paid to that, but he knew Snape wished to shelter him as though he were innocent. Harry thought he understood why.

He wouldn't be a typical seventeen-year-old wizard.

Reaching his majority meant facing the fact that much of the wizarding world would see him as the most powerful wizard alive. He didn't want it to be true, he didn't want to wear the crown, but he had to accept it, and so did Snape. That last night at Hogwarts, when he told Snape he wouldn't stop needing him, he had meant it, but he also didn't want that dependence to stunt his magic.

While packing his trunk to leave the castle, he'd rummaged around it, trying to make room for Hedwig's cage after Draco charmed it to fit. Under a set of dress robes, he'd found the book on white magic Snape had given him at Christmas.

"Is that…" Draco said, when Harry pulled it out. "Is that _Gwyn Dewindabaeth_?"

Harry looked at him. "Yeah. The professor gave it to me last Christmas." He held it out to Draco. The Slytherin was slow to take it.

"You know Merlin wrote this?" he said.

Harry chuckled. "Yeah."

Draco snorted softly. "Severus told you."

"Shut it."

Draco kept turning it gingerly back and forth, not opening it.

"Take it," Harry said, "read it, if you want."

"I couldn't." Draco shoved it back at Harry.

"What? Can't read Middle Welsh?"

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Granger?"

"Shut it!" Harry poked him in the shoulder.

Draco smirked and looked back down at the book. "If you really don't mind..."

"What's mine is yours."

"Oh, brilliant, but only the nice things, yes? Like your broom?"

Harry growled. "Piss off."

Draco opened his trunk to gently place the book on top of his immaculately packed things. "I'll take good care it."

Harry nodded. Seeing the book again made him anxious to read it himself, to see if he could discover something about his own magic, but he'd never get through it without help. Harry figured he'd ask Snape. The man would never own a book without knowing how to read it.

"All right?" Harry heard Snape say, bringing him back to the present.

Harry looked at him. "Yeah. Tired, though. Long day."

Snape hadn't looked up from the parchment during their exchange. Harry wondered what was so important.

"Love letter?"

Startled, Snape looked up. "What?"

Harry nodded at the parchment. "Must be important. You haven't looked up once."

"Ah, well, please forgive me. I didn't realize my ability to do two things at once would offend your delicate sensibilities. Truly, narcissism does not become you. In fact, I'd heard tell that you were quite the opposite of a narcissist, shunning all manner of attention, great and small."

"Ugh. I'm going to bed." Harry started for his room.

"Rest well."

Harry stopped, hearing the sincerity in Snape's tone. "You, too. Don't stay up too late."

"Yes, Dad," Snape muttered, resuming writing on his parchment.

Harry snorted. "You're in for it tomorrow. Or…some time."

"Yes, yes. I shall make certain to be on my guard."

"Comin', Fang?" Fang rose from his spot by the big window then plopped down next to Snape's feet. "Traitor," Harry muttered, the proceeded up the hallway. Just as he was about to enter his room, Draco opened the bathroom door. He had on his black silk dressing gown and his hair was damp.

"Oy," Harry said. "How's the attic?"

"It's an attic."

"So you're camping out on top of old trunks and moth-eaten quilts, eh?"

"No, Severus and I tidied it up, and I added some touches."

"So it looks like the Taj-Mahal now?"

"Shut up, Potter."

"Can I see it?"

"Perhaps. Once you're able to manage the ladder to get up there."

"Really?" Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Good night, Potter." He slipped his wand into his hand and aimed it at the ceiling near the back of the hallway. " _Descendo."_

When an oaken ladder slid down, Harry muttered, "You could turn that into stairs, you know."

"Good night, Potter," Draco repeated, then stepped over to the ladder to begin the climb up.

"Yeah," Harry said softly. "Sleep well."

Draco stopped to look back at Harry. This would be the first night in months that they hadn't shared a room, he suddenly realized.

"Tomorrow," he said, "after you've rested, there'll be stairs."

Harry grinned.

*SP

 **Harry's Room, Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (26)**

"Mmph."

Bacon.

Harry knocked his pillow off his head. He sniffed, making sure he wasn't dreaming. When his stomach growled, he reached for his glasses. It was after nine o'clock. He'd been more tired than he'd realized. He left his room to shuffle stiffly down the hallway.

"Mornin'," he said after entering the kitchen.

"Good morning," said Snape.

Harry grimaced and rubbed the back of his head

"How is it?" said Snape.

Harry brought his hand down from his head. It was just a twinge. "'S'nothing. I'm starved."

"Sit," Snape filled a glass with pumpkin juice and set it next to Harry's plate.

Harry eased down onto his chair then leaned his walking-stick against the table. "Draco?" he said as Snape scooped eggs onto his plate.

"He and I ate earlier. He's outside, having a look around."

Harry ate a forkful of eggs, then said, "He hates it here, doesn't he?"

"He misses the castle."

"Would he rather stay with Andromeda?"

"No."

"He'd probably hate it there more than here."

"He doesn't hate it here. It's just unfamiliar to him."

"He never said a bad word about the pub or Aberforth when he stayed at the Hog's Head after Christmas. I reckon after escaping from Lucius and Voldemort, anyplace would have been like a palace."

"Mm."

"Something else is bothering him, too."

"Talk to him."

"He doesn't talk to me the way he talks to you."

"He simply confides in you when he's ready. I believe there's very little about him that I know and you don't."

Harry thought about what Snape said as he bit into a strip of bacon. "I'll go find him after I finish."

Snape nodded.

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (26)**

After changing into a pair of jeans, trainers, and a faded cranberry colored T-shirt with _betWay_ on it (a West Ham T-shirt he'd borrowed from Dean ages ago), Harry stood at the back edge of the wild garden. As he scanned the northern end of the valley, he spotted the overgrown mining walk that snaked up the hill. The walkup was another entry point to their valley. He had discovered it last summer after seeing Snape and Fang return from one of their strolls.

Beyond the path, through the lingering mid-morning haze, he saw the tip of an old mining stack. According to Snape, their neighbor, a Muggle woman called Myfanwy Turner, lived near there. He'd never met her, but he'd eaten the blackberry tarts Snape had made using her blackberries.

Last summer, when Snape, Poly-juiced as Edmund Brockman, and Fang went for walks, she had always fed Fang fat strips of bacon when they passed by her place. While chatting one day, Snape mentioned how much Harry loved treacle tarts. From that point on, whenever Snape and Fang stopped by, Myfanwy gave him a tart from the shop she ran out of her house. Harry hoped she'd be in as charitable a mood this summer.

Eventually, Harry spotted Draco's blond head bobbing up and down as the Slytherin skirted the northeast end of the valley, near the oak grove. Fang plodded along beside him until Harry whistled. The boarhound looked toward the house, then barked when he saw Harry. As Harry started towards them, Draco and Fang doubled back to meet him.

"Anything wrong?" Draco said.

"No. Wanted to know where you'd got to."

"I'm just taking things in."

"You hate it, don't you?"

"No, Potter, I don't."

Harry scratched at his right wrist. Scars, livid pink reminders of where he'd been tethered to those Thestrals, encircled both wrists. Hermione had described the scene to Draco, of seeing Harry from the air as she and Brân were flying back to join the fight. By the time they all fought their way through to the main courtyard, he had freed himself to float above everyone. Draco had watched the Dark Lord fire the Killing Curse at Harry, then watched Harry react as if the dark wizard had performed a harmless Scouring Charm. But he'd been spared the sight of the Gryffindor bound and seconds from being torn apart.

"Severus could take care of that, and the ones on your ankles," Draco said.

"He offered."

"And you refused?" Draco frowned. "Why?"

"They're a part of me, just like this one." Harry gestured at his forehead.

They walked in silence for a bit, Draco's steps slow and even. Every other one of Harry's steps dragged across the worn grass of the path. He'd forgotten his walking-stick in his room.

"Sometimes I don't understand it," Draco said, slipping his hands into his pockets.

"What?"

"Us. Me, you…Severus."

"What's to understand?"

"I don't know. All of this…quiet has got me thinking. For most of the year, we've done nothing but be attacked, train to fight, train to be on our guard, and now we must face the aftermath of everything on our own…"

"It's been a shit year."

Draco snorted softly. "To say the least. I just… I could never have imagined me here."

"Where? With me?"

"Anywhere, Potter."

"Oh…" They walked in silence for a bit, then Harry said, "Ever think about what would have happened if Voldemort had won? With your mum and Lucius, I mean."

"After the Dark Lord returned, I was scared, all the time, wondering what we'd have to do, what _I'd_ have to do to remain in his good graces. I think that if he had won, we wouldn't have survived." He was quiet a moment, then said. "In Wiltshire, Malfoy Manor sits on land a lot like this. It's better maintained, of course, impeccable. Not a blade of grass, or a flower out of order, and definitely no overgrown hedges framing the grounds, ever. They're trimmed to stand at precisely eight feet so that guests can see the albino peacocks strutting about the tops of them."

"Peacocks?"

"Albino peacocks."

Harry snorted.

"Once the Dark Lord moved in, I grew to hate being there even more. I couldn't wait to get away."

"You'd still rather be somewhere else."

Draco threw up his hands. "I don't hate it here, Potter, it's just…" He uttered a rueful laugh. "This time last year, I positively despised you."

Harry chuckled. "Didn't like you much, either."

"And this time last year, my…my father didn't lift a finger while the Dark Lord murdered my mother. I feel…I don't know, I feel like it's just now starting to sink in, how much everything's changed. I don't know what my life would have been like if my family hadn't followed the Dark Lord. I've tried imagining it, and I can't. So much of who we were was wrapped up in hating people who weren't Purebloods. I felt—I can't really say I was ever happy, but I knew who I was. I knew the Malfoy name meant something, that I had a legacy, dark as it was."

"And now?"

"Now I feel as if I have to be someone…different, someone new."

"Draco, there's nothing wrong with who you are."

"What I mean is that I have to figure myself out for myself."

Harry frowned, confused. "Brilliant."

Draco waved a hand at him. "You can't understand—you're Harry Potter. I come from a family of blood purists and Death Eaters."

"You talked to Dad about this? If anybody would understand, it's him."

"I haven't. I suppose I could."

Harry grinned. "Is that your way of admitting I'm right?"

Draco scowled. "Please."

As they neared the paddock, Harry said, "Why do you only call him Dad sometimes?"

"I know who he is to me, and it doesn't bother him."

"It does."

Draco frowned. "He said something to you."

"No, but he gets this look, like he's been goosed or something when you call him by his name. I think he's gotten used to us calling him Dad."

"Oh."

"He'd never say a word about it, but I do think it bothers him."

"Mm."

"And, Malfoy, it's—it's all right for you to be, you know, happy."

While watching the paddock grasses sway in a sudden gust of wind, Draco said, "Is it?" Anger colored his tone as he swept a lock of hair out of his face.

Harry stopped walking, forcing Draco to do the same. "You made a choice, the right choice. You get rewarded for that, right?"

"And my mother? She tried to make the same choice, and it cost her her life."

"But you know why she did it."

"Yes, and that only adds to the guilt I feel every moment of every day. Here I am, alive and well, and she's not. Gods, I miss her. Every day there's this dreadful, shattering pain here." Draco pressed his hand over his heart. "Sometimes I-I-I can't bear it. And now, with all this quiet, all this space, I…"

"I-I don't know what to do, what to say to make you feel better."

"I don't mean to burden you with this."

"You're not burdening me, Draco. We're talking."

Draco snorted softly. "What could you possibly know about 'talking?'"

Harry grinned. "You've met my girlfriend, yes?"

"The brain with hair attached to it? It's good of you to remember her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Thomasin, the girl at the inn?"

Harry scoffed.

"I saw how you were looking at her, Potter."

"She was pretty!"

"Beautiful."

"So?"

"Be careful."

"I'll probably never see or hear from her again."

"Ah. I take it you missed the letter waiting for you on your side table."

Harry's eyes widened. "A letter?"

"'To Harry, from Thomasin,'" Draco drawled.

"Oh. Well. I s'pose I'll have a look when we get back."

Draco breathed in, then breathed out. "I think I'll stay out a bit longer. I'll walk you back, though."

Harry scowled. "I don't need walking back. I'm not a dog!"

Fang _woofed_.

"No offense, boy," Harry said.

"I'll be round in time for lunch, then," Draco said.

"All right."

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (30)**

"Harry? Draco?" Snape called as he shut the door, then set his packages on the floor.

When there was no answer, Snape followed Fang as the boarhound padded down the hallway to the stairs that led to the attic. He waited until Fang climbed up and entered the room before doing the same. Inside, he found Harry asleep on Draco's bed while the blond sat at his desk writing a letter. Hedwig was perched on the sill of the open window just above Harry's head.

Draco looked up. "Nice walk?"

"I got two baskets of blackberries from the village. Should be more than enough to make tarts for the party."

"Why did you go to the village? I thought there was a blackberry farm nearby."

"Yes, Myfanwy Turner's farm. Apparently, it burned down a few weeks ago, with her in it."

"What happened?"

"Old Lady Davies suspects witches."

Draco's eyebrows shot up. "What?"

Snape shook his head. "She's a Muggle. Although, this area is known for being haunted. A lot of villagers make a fair living letting out rooms in their houses and barns to paranormal thrillseekers."

"Could there be anything to it? You said a lot of magical people live round here, too."

"It likely was an accident, gas leak, or something, but if it were someone magical, why kill her? There're plenty of abandoned houses and farms to choose from. Why hers? And why make it so public?"

"Still…"

"I know," Snape said quietly, then he nodded at Harry. "How long has he been out?"

Draco shrugged. "Twenty minutes?"

"Well, I'll be out in the lab for about an hour." Snape turned and started down the stairs.

"So we shouldn't expect to see you for at least two hours."

Snape looked back over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed minutely. "An hour and a half."

Draco nodded and went back to writing, a small smile on his lips.

*SP


	8. Chapter 8

Disclaimer: JK Rowling's characters.

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (31)** **… _8:06 a.m._**

"Harry!" Ron shouted.

Harry grinned and hugged Ron as the redhead enveloped him in a gentle embrace. "You all look great," he said, as Ginny and Dean patiently waited their turn.

"So do you," said Ginny, kissing him on the cheek. "Got a bit of a tan already, haven't you?"

"Yeah, been outside as much as I can."

"As much as Snape'll let you, you mean," said Dean, looking up the hill at Snape.

"Hey, boy!" Ginny leaned over to wrap her arms around Fang's neck. Fang _woofed_ and tried to lick her face, but he couldn't reach her. Ginny laughed and straightened up, then pulled a treat from her bag. Fang snuffled it up, drenching Ginny's hand, which she wiped on Ron's back.

"Ginny!" Ron recoiled and twisted away from her.

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You know I hate it when you whinge my name."

"I wasn't whinging! And why'd you have to wipe Fang's ick on _my_ back? Dean's standing right there!"

"I didn't want to get his shirt dirty. Some of us take pride in how we look."

When Ron growled and narrowed his eyes, Dean stepped in front of Ginny. He stuck his chest out and put his fists on his hips. "Fear not, fair maiden, for I, Dean of West Ham, shall protect your honor!"

Ron snorted. "What honor?"

"How dare you!" Ginny screeched dramatically and reached around Dean to poke Ron in the ribs.

"Oy!"

Dean moved out of the way as the two began mock fighting. Ginny squealed when Ron picked her up and pitched her over his shoulder.

"Let's get off the road," Harry said, laughing.

"Where's Draco?" Ron said.

"Other side of the hill," said Harry.

"Ron and Dra-co, sit-tin' in a tree," Ginny sang from her upside-down position. When Ron jostled her, she yelped and held out her hands to Dean, who pulled her free to set her on her feet. Then the two redheads began fighting again.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Can't take them anywhere, mate," he whispered to Harry.

"We heard that," said Ginny. She had Ron in a headlock.

Harry grinned, glad to see them in good spirits. He had wondered how they were coping after Fred's death, and Bill's recovery from that werewolf bite.

Once they reached Snape, Ginny was the first to speak. "Professor."

"Miss Weasley. Mr. Thomas, Mr. Weasley," Snape said, saving the boys from having to address him. When he motioned for them to pass through the boundary, Ron went first. Ginny, Dean, and Fang followed. When Harry came through, Ron and Draco were nearly halfway down the hill.

"It's absolutely lovely here," said Ginny, looking around.

"It is," Dean said. "I love the city, but the more time I spend in the country, the more I think I wouldn't mind living somewhere like this. Man, I could sit out here and sketch for days…"

"Don't get any ideas," said Ginny, sticking a finger in his face. "We're going to the beach. You can sketch there, too."

"Yes, love," Dean said, taking her finger and kissing it. Harry chuckled and clapped Dean on the back, which made Harry lose his balance. "Whoa!" Dean grabbed Harry's arm to steady him.

"Sorry," Harry said, taking a moment to orient himself.

"No worries, mate," said Dean. "I got you."

Harry glanced back at Snape. The Potions master's lips were a tight, bloodless line, his annoyance plain. Before leaving the cottage, he and Harry had rowed. Harry had refused to use the magic carpet or his walking-stick, wanting his friends to see how much he had improved. He was glad Snape wasn't making a fuss, now. Harry reckoned it might be because Dean still had ahold of his arm.

"Harry?" Ginny said.

"I'm all right," he said, giving her a smile. "C'mon, I want to show you around."

As they walked, Harry pointed out landmarks, promising them a closer look after they got settled. At the cottage, Harry led them to the wild garden.

Dean whistled. "Nev's gonna to flip his wig when he sees this."

Beyond the garden, behind the southeast corner of the cottage, Snape had set up several tents.

"How many people are planning to stay?" Ginny said. "I thought it was just us."

"Well, there's one for the guys, one for the girls, Andromeda and her children have a tent to themselves, and I think there's a couple spares for whatever," Harry said, with a shrug.

After Dean unloaded his things in the boys' tent, and Ginny unloaded hers in the girls', Harry brought them to his rowan—using his magic carpet, per Snape's 'suggestion.' After that he showed them the paddock, then flew them to the oak grove. The trees welcomed them by bending into graceful arches wherever they roamed, delighting Dean.

"Honestly, sometimes it's like I'm dating an eight-year-old girl," Ginny said to Harry as they slowly trailed Dean through the grove.

"Heard that," he called over his shoulder as he approached one of the oaks. When he began running his fingers over its bark, the tree shivered, making its leaves rustle. Dean laughed and began tickling it, which made its leaves rustle even more. "Least it's not trying take my head off like the Whomping Willow."

"They've never done this before," Harry said, stepping over to tickle a tree. One of the tree's low-hanging branches brushed his stomach, tickling him back. The sound of his and Dean's laughter echoed throughout the grove.

Ginny watched them, smiling, until her eyes suddenly filled with tears. She quickly brushed them away, not wanting the boys to see. She hated crying, even as a child. When she scraped a knee, got a black eye, or bruised a rib while playing, she got angry instead of cried because she believed that she could do whatever her brothers did, even if it hurt. And, crying never seemed to make her feel better anyway, just left her feeling embarrassed and not in control. Dean didn't judge her for it, which had been a relief, especially that morning after the battle.

A storm had arrived with the dawn. It raged for nearly an hour before giving way to a steady rain that lasted until early afternoon. Despite the weather, many, including the Weasleys, were impatient to bring in their dead. As Percy, Charlie, Arthur, and Bill prepared to go collect Fred's body, Ron had watched them, assuming he'd be going too.

"You need to be here for Mum, Ginny, and George," Bill said.

"But I know where he is!" Ron said. "I was there…"

"I know," Bill said as Ron's eyes filled with tears, "but we don't know what we're going to find, and I don't want you seeing it, seeing Fred…" He cleared his throat. "Stay here."

After they returned, white-faced and silent, Ginny fled to Gryffindor Tower, without a word. When two hours later, she hadn't returned, Arthur raised the alarm.

Volunteers spent an hour searching the castle and grounds. When they reported that she hadn't been found yet, Arthur had stood in the middle of the hospital wing and shouted: "Where is my daughter? Why can't you find her? Find her, please! You must find her! I've already lost my s-son! Where is my daughter? Ginny! Ginny!"

Alarmed by his father's behavior, Ron had begged him to calm down. Moments before, as Ron was making his way back from searching the dungeons, Dobby had appeared, telling him that Dean and Ginny were in Gryffindor Tower.

"Ginny, love," Dean had said as he approached her in the common room.

She was sitting, staring out of one of the windows, her shoulders shaking as tears ran down her face. When he touched her, she screamed and lurched to her feet. She lobbed whatever was at hand, yanked at her hair, clawed at her face, and wailed until she collapsed breathless in his arms.

Dean picked her up and carried her upstairs. He sat her on his bed and filled his basin with hot water. He undressed her, washed her, then put her in one of his T-shirts and a pair of his shorts. He brushed her hair, pressed a soft kiss to her lips, then coaxed her under the covers. Finally, he lay next to her and gently urged her to go to sleep.

"Ginny, please," he whispered as she lay staring up at the canopy.

"I want to," she said softly. "I do. I want to go to sleep and never wake up, I think."

"Oh, love…"

"I hate crying," she said.

"I know, but you can cry in front of me."

Ginny turned her head to look at him. "Kiss me," she said, softly.

"Ginny!" Dean said, bringing her back to the present. "Love, you with me?"

She looked at him and took the hand he was holding out to her. "Of course. I'm here."

The tour ended at the pond.

"This'll be Ron's favorite spot," said Ginny.

"Reminds me of the Burrow," Dean said.

"That's why he'll love it," Ginny said. "But _I_ want to explore the beach, dip my toes in the ocean. Would it be terribly rude if we left now?"

"Yes," said Ron, as he and Draco strolled up.

Ginny said, "I wasn't talking to you, spattergoit face."

"Oy!"

"Dad at the cottage?" Harry asked Draco.

"No, your girlfriend has arrived. He's escorting her down."

"Oh, brilliant," Harry said.

"Hitch a ride with you back to the house?" Dean said to Harry. "We can say hi to Hermione, get our stuff, then head to the beach."

Harry said, "Sure. C'mon then."

"And the party?" Ron said.

"We'll be back well before it starts," Ginny said, sticking out her tongue.

"Come on, Ginger Spice." Dean swept her off her feet into his arms.

"Who?" Ginny said, her brow furrowed. Smiling, Dean kissed her.

Ron groaned. "Really? In front of me?"

"Don't act as if you and Draco won't be doing the same thing the second we're out of sight," Ginny said.

"Dean," Ron said, "get her out of here, please!"

Dean laughed and set Ginny down. He took her hand and they hurried to catch up to Harry, who was already floating on his carpet, waiting for them.

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (31)** **_…10:09 a.m._**

Snape and Hermione were heading away from the garden when Harry spotted them. Hermione smiled and said something to Snape before dashing over to Harry.

"Chicken," he said, as the carpet dipped sideways so that he could slide off it.

"'S good to see you Hermione," said Dean.

"You, too, Dean. Ginny."

"Oy," said Dean, snagging Ginny's hand to lead her away, "the beach awaits."

Staring into Harry's eyes, Hermione feathered a finger over his bottom lip. "You look beautiful."

Harry laughed. "That's my line."

"Shall we go sit in the garden?"

"Yeah." Harry took her hand and they started towards the back of the cottage.

Snape said to Harry, "Draco?"

"The pond, with Ron."

Snape nodded and said, "I'll be inside."

"All right," Harry said. Then to Hermione: "How about a ride on my magic carpet instead?"

Hermione beamed. "Absolutely."

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (31)** **… _6:30 p.m._**

An hour before the party, guests received a Portkey. Instead of relying on Apparition, Snape created Portkeys to eliminate the danger of guests being sighted on the road, or of Apparating to the wrong place. Each guest's arrival was timed three minutes apart to avoid accidents when they appeared at the bottom of the hill on the valley-side of the magical boundary.

Tracey Davis, Marcus Flint, Pansy Parkinson, and Neville arrived first. Marcus, looking smart, if a bit tank-like, in tailored emerald green robes, stood alongside a beaming Tracey, who looked radiant in blood-orange robes. Two weeks ago, she had been fitted with a prosthetic leg. Her limp was barely noticeable as she had always been a graceful girl. Regardless, Marcus's arm around her waist provided extra support should she need it.

Pansy wore fitted champagne pink robes and she'd drawn back her short, black bob with glittery barrettes that, according to Draco, were made of diamonds. The edges of her robes' sleeves and her small handbag looked to be encrusted with the same jewels. Neville, clad in simple, but elegant black robes held the hand Pansy had looped over his arm.

Theo Nott, Terry Boot, Brân, and Willie Williamson arrived next. As everyone made their way across the valley to the cottage, Draco and Harry stood out in front of it to greet them, with Draco at Harry's right, making him the first person their guests encountered instead of Harry. Harry shook his head as Draco addressed everyone as though they had queued up for some sort of royal receiving line.

After a while, Harry understood why Draco had placed himself between Harry and the partiers. The Slytherin expertly, and subtly prodded those who wished to linger and talk, telling them, "Once everyone has passed through and Harry has joined the party, do feel free to speak with him as much as you like. Thank you."

Harry had laughed out loud when Draco admonished Ron with the same speech because Ron had wanted to keep talking to Harry, gumming up the queue. The redhead had frowned, opened his mouth to say something, then shuffled off with a confused expression when Draco said, "There's a delightful selection of hors d'oeuvres around back near the garden. Please, enjoy."

Lavender Brown, Romilda Vane, Natalie McDonald, Anthony Goldstein, Susan Bones, Kevin Entwhistle, and Mandy Brocklehurst were the last to arrive and formed a sizable group as they approached the east side of the cottage where nearly everyone had gathered.

"Oy, Harry," Charlie said.

Harry grinned. "Charlie. Thanks for coming." He shook the hand Charlie had extended.

"Wouldn't miss it. I'd have chatted a bit more going through the line, but your Blond Defender wouldn't suffer any dilly-dallying."

Harry chuckled. "He's just trying to be helpful."

"I know," said Charlie. "'S just still a little strange, you and him being so close."

Harry shrugged. "It is what it is."

"Yeah." Charlie shifted his eyebrows. "He's got my little brother wrapped round his finger."

"The feeling's mutual, trust me."

"I trust Ron," Charlie said. He looked Harry up and down. "You look good. Being here suits you."

"I wish you'd arrived a bit earlier. I could have shown you around."

"Ginny's already given me an earful—the pond, the oak trees, the beach. 'S good. I'm happy for you, mate. You deserve this." When Harry flushed, embarrassed, Charlie smiled. "Well, I'm gonna go mingle a bit, Mr. Potter."

"You headed back to Romania soon?"

Charlie grinned and said, "Funny you should ask. Actually, I'm staying on at Hogwarts, at least 'til they can get a permanent Head of House for Gryffindor."

Harry laughed. "You're going to be our Head of House?"

Charlie chuckled. "Yeah, just 'til they find someone new."

"Did you know about this?" Harry said as Ron and Draco approached.

"What?" said Ron.

"Charlie, he's our Head of House."

Ron's eyes widened as he looked at his brother. "You're takin' the piss."

"That was the old Charlie, who wasn't your Head of House. New Charlie is indeed your Head of House, so…respect."

"I don't believe it," Ron said, sounding far away.

"It's only until they get someone else," Charlie said, patting Ron on the shoulder.

"You mean someone qualified," Ron muttered.

"You know it's a good thing I can't take points yet, little brother…"

Ron's face went slack with horror. "You wouldn't!"

"Wouldn't I?" Charlie said and strode away, a big enigmatic smile on his face.

"Gods, he's going to be an absolute nightmare, isn't he?" Ron said.

"No," said Harry, watching as Charlie took a drink to McGonagall. "No, of course…he's not… Is he?"

"Well, I've no need to fear _my_ Head of House," Draco drawled.

"Oh, shut it, Malfoy," Harry and Ron said.

"Anyway," Harry said, "it's Charlie, not Percy."

Ron said, "Don't let the good old wizard routine fool you. Charlie's just as clever as Percy, he just doesn't flaunt it, and he can be just as bossy. Remember, he handles dragons, and not just dragons, but dragon handlers. They can be…unruly."

When Draco snorted, Harry and Ron cast him withering looks. "Yes, well, I'll just be over here," he said, leaving to join Hermione, Theo, Ginny, Mandy Brocklehurst, and Hannah Abbot.

"I'm gonna go see if I can overhear what my brother and McGonagall are yapping about," Ron said.

"Cheers," Harry said.

After just barely avoiding running into Brân Savage, Ron raised a hand and broke off to make his way to where McGonagall and Charlie were standing near Snape and Andromeda Tonks.

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (31)** **… _8:17 p.m._**

Dobby, clad in a formal Hogwarts tea towel, had volunteered his services for the party, but it was only after some tense negotiations over several cups of tea that he accepted Snape's offer to pay him. Under his watchful eye, the buffet tables brimmed with all manner of tasty food and drink. When the sun set, fairy lights winked on then proceeded to dance around the garden, the cottage's eaves and windows, and the paddock. Fang watched them from his lounging spot near the backdoor while Crookshanks chased and batted them around. The cat caught a few, spat the squealing creatures out, then started the game again.

After Andromeda, Stella, Jack, and Frannie left the receiving line, they had followed some of the crowd to the back of the cottage. The instant the children spotted Fang and Crookshanks, they made a beeline for the animals. While Crookshanks was typically temperamental and loathed humans' cooing attentions, he suffered the children's affections. He even managed a rumbling purr as Stella stroked his belly and laughed.

"Oh, that's wonderful to hear," Andromeda told Snape. "I think that's the first genuine laughter I've heard from her."

"Perhaps you should get them a pet," he said. "I understand Cornelius Fudge is still looking for work."

Andromeda chuckled. "Absolutely not. I wouldn't have the patience to housetrain him."

"How are they adjusting to the house?"

Andromeda smiled sadly. "They all have nightmares, bouts of anger, and times when they're quiet as mice. Of course it's far too soon to expect much else from them, but I often can't help wondering if I did the right thing, if I'm helping or hurting them?"

"It's difficult to watch and difficult to know."

"It's just so unfair, all that they've been through. But it's our lot to help them, yes?"

"It is."

"And you've no regrets?"

Snape searched until he spotted Harry and Draco with Ron, Hermione, Neville, Pansy, Blaise, Dean, Ginny, and Theo. Hermione was standing behind Harry, her arms around his waist, her chin on his shoulder as he gestured animatedly. Draco looked relaxed with Ron's hand resting on his back as they listened to Harry.

"None at all," he said.

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (31)** **… _8:42 p.m._**

"Severus," said Brân, once Andromeda had gone to check on her children.

Snape had seen him arrive with Willie Williamson and John Dawlish. Harry had insisted on inviting them, wanting to express his gratitude to the men for looking after them in London, particularly after Loyd's trial when Harry suffered that horrible seizure. Snape hadn't been overly pleased about Savage's invitation, but it was Harry's party.

"Savage." Snape barely glanced at the man when he spoke.

"Quite the turnout," Brân said. "I'd imagined Harry'd want something a bit more intimate."

"He wanted what he wanted."

"Aye. He looks well, happy. Sounded good when I spoke to him a little bit ago."

Someone had conjured some chairs, as Harry was sitting now. Hermione sat beside him in a chair of her own. They were looking at Blaise. The Slytherin had returned from Ghana a few days ago. Next to Harry and Hermione, Dean and Ginny shared a seat, Ginny on Dean's lap. Snape wondered if the girl knew how to sit on a piece of furniture without using Dean as a cushion.

"My son is fine," he said, and started away.

Brân followed. He spoke as they walked. "I kept thinking, the night of the battle, and after, 'He doesn't remember me.'"

"I don't forget my students."

Brân grinned. "I was a bit unusual, though. You know, I actually enjoyed your classes. Not that others didn't…" He quickly added. "I learned a lot."

"You asked enough questions," Snape muttered.

Brân chuckled. The Potions master's words sounded more like a compliment than an admonishment. "Well, it was the only way I could get you to talk to me."

He had been inquisitive, not only because he was clever, but because he'd been genuinely curious about potions, and Snape had known it. But, Brân had also liked engaging Snape because it made it seem as if they were having a conversation.

The only students Snape spoke to outside of class (beyond taking points for misbehavior) were Slytherins. Students from each house had spread rumors—some true, most false—about Snape, which made the young professor even more tight-lipped around them, so Brân fairly preened when he and Snape had a back and forth in class.

"Yes, well, if you'll excuse me," Snape said.

"Severus?" Brân pressed a light touch to his elbow, having learned his lesson about trying to manhandle the man.

"Enjoy your evening," Snape said, and strode away.

Brân watched him approach a smiling Aberforth, who held his arms open. Brân hadn't spotted him earlier. Snape stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the old wizard. After a moment, Aberforth pulled back and took Snape's face into his hands, looked him up and down, then released him.

They chatted until Andromeda Tonks limped over. Watching her it struck Brân, he had never seen so many canes, staffs, and walking-sticks in one place. Fucking Voldemort. Goddamn war. Minutes later, when Draco joined them, their faces transformed from serious expressions to smiles. The boy acknowledged his aunt first, saying something complimentary from the way Andromeda glowed before hugging and kissing him. Once Andromeda let him go, Aberforth shifted his staff and shook the hand Draco had extended in greeting.

Brân smiled to himself as Snape listened to Draco. The man's feelings for the boy were written all over his face.

"Take a picture, mate," Willie said, his lips right next to Brân's ear, making Brân jump. "Lasts longer."

Brân glared as the young Auror came around to stand in front of him. "You're lucky we're not on duty. I'd write your arse up five ways from Sunday."

Willie grinned. "You wouldn't. How would you live without my slavish adoration?"

"I'd manage. Oh, speaking of living without you, Gumboil needs a couple bodies next week for an overnight assignment. I'm to recommend someone."

Willie kept grinning, then he paled. "You wouldn't!"

Brân narrowed his eyes. "Oh, I could, probably _should_ after that little stunt you just pulled."

Too good-natured by far, Willie could never manage a wholly convincing scowl. "How is it that you're more bearable on the job, than at a party?"

"Did no one ever tell you that words hurt?" Brân said.

"Arse. I'm gonna go find Theo. Think I'll charm a toad into his trousers, give him a thrill since the Granger girl won't give him the time of day."

"Ah, it's good to have things in common, no?"

Willie shook his head. "You're just a despicable, spiteful arse," he said, as Brân grinned and lifted his glass of ale at him.

Making his way toward the front of the cottage, Willie stopped to chat with Charlie Weasley, greeting the redhead with a boisterous hug. Brân liked Willie, believed he was a fair Auror who would perhaps make a good one, but he questioned the young wizard's commitment to the corps, mostly because Willie treated being an Auror as a job. For Brân, it was his calling. Seeking justice seemed to be in his blood.

Since about the 1300s, a Savage had been involved in the law. Brân's father, Brychan, had been a brilliant solicitor. Instead of representing families like the Blacks, the Malfoys, or the Parkinsons, he had carved out a niche working for those who didn't have the means to hire someone of his caliber. Brân had been insanely proud of him, and Brychan's death three years ago had been devastating.

After the funeral, Brân took time off to organize his father's affairs, then Dumbledore announced Voldemort's return. Despite Cornelius Fudge's blustering denials, Brân had believed Dumbledore, especially as he had been at the Ministry long enough to know that Fudge would say and do anything to cling to power.

When Brân returned to work, Kingsley had tried—not for the first time—to convince him to attend an Order of the Phoenix meeting. Brân had declined. While he fully supported the Order, he felt he would be more valuable at the Ministry. Weeks after Voldemort's return, Brân had begun hearing whispers about Aurors either being recruited or trying to recruit other Aurors supportive of Voldemort's beliefs.

While publicly, trying to flush out a possible Fifth column within the Auror Corps had been his reason for not joining the Order, privately things were more complicated. Seeing Snape the night of the battle had unearthed feelings Brân had thought long buried since his days as a Ravenclaw.

After leaving Hogwarts, he had taken a year to travel the world, then returned to England to join the corps. After earning his Auror credentials, he lived his life, even fell in love, but it had ended badly. Since then, he had never denied himself the pleasure of having dinner, having a pint, or of even spending the night with someone, but he'd decided that getting emotionally involved was a nonstarter—not only because of that failed relationship years ago, but because he now supposed he had never truly moved past his feelings for Snape.

Regrettably, the timing was off. Snape had a family. He was father to Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, the two most recognizable young wizards in the wizarding world. While much of that world hailed them as heroes, Voldemort loyalists saw them as threats. And as the Ministry lacked an effective means of tracking the loyalists, Britain's wizarding population was left vulnerable to attack. But where Snape and his boys were concerned, Brân aimed to do whatever was necessary to keep them safe.

*SP

 **Snape's Lab, Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (31)** **… _9:23 p.m._**

"How long do you plan to stay out here?" Draco said.

Harry looked up from the tattered, stained Potions text resting on his knees. "'Til school starts?"

Draco walked towards him. "This is your party. You must put in more of an appearance than smiling uncomfortably next to the cake."

"That won't be enough?"

"Let me rephrase: You must put in more of an appearance because covering for you is exhausting."

"Yeah, sorry." Harry sighed. "You think I'm being childish?"

"…No?"

"Wanker. Dad looking for me?"

"He knows where you are. He asked me to come fetch you. At any rate, it's not him you have to worry about—it's the adoring masses clamoring for your flesh."

Harry chuckled at the evil glint in Draco's eyes. "Arse."

"Yes, well, chop, chop. If I have to suffer another of your girlfriend's fawning looks every time Weasley comes near me, I won't be responsible."

"I can see how that'd get annoying, considering Ron never leaves your side. Color me surprised that he's not with you now."

"Oy, Harry," Ron said, popping his head into the doorway. "C'mon, mate. Party time! And I'm starving."

Draco frowned and turned to look at Ron. "You _just_ had a plate of food before we came out here. I'm fairly certain you're the only reason Dobby keeps replenishing everything."

"That was like fifteen minutes ago, and it's a bit of a walk to get here." Ron rubbed his stomach. "I've worked up an appetite."

"Really? Fifty steps, if that, and you're famished?"

"Yeah, and I think Dobby's about to stop refilling the platters. Reckon he'll give me a tray so I can snack later?"

"Are you serious?"

Harry said, "Don't argue with him, Draco. Food's his first love."

"No, it isn't," Ron said quietly, looking at Draco.

Harry made an exaggerated gagging noise when Draco's cheeks pinked up. "Lend me an arm, hero," he said to the blond. "I forgot my walking-stick."

"I'm sure Aberforth will be thrilled to hear that."

"He made it?" Harry said, grasping the elbow Draco held out to him.

"Yes."

"Did he say why he was late?"

"Silly me. I asked him how he was and if he'd like any refreshment. I didn't think to rudely accost him about not being here at 6:48 and 32 seconds, like he was scheduled to be."

"Gods, you can be an arse."

Draco cocked his head to the side. "You seem surprised…"

"Ugh! Ron, can I use your arm instead?"

"No. I prefer to keep out of the line of fire."

"Git."

"Come on," Draco said, sounding exasperated.

"Don't rush the cripple," Harry muttered as he slid off the wood counter top, trying not to jar himself when he landed.

"Please," Draco said. "I've seen you nearly knock Fang over in your rush to get to the dinner table."

"One time!"

"You guys gonna pussyfoot around in here all night or are you coming back to the party?" said Dean, from the doorway.

Draco rolled his eyes. "Perhaps we should move everything out here. Everyone seems to know where you are."

"Oy," Dean said, holding his hands up, "don't shoot the messenger." Then Ron shifted out of Dean's line of sight, giving him a good look at Harry. "Damn! Mate, you need another elbow or something?" He rushed forward to Harry's other side. "What the hell, Ron? Why didn't you give him a hand?"

Ron looked at Dean, stunned. Seamus used to tease Dean, calling him Gloss because unlike his dormmates (save Neville), it took a lot to bring out Dean's temper—although Ginny usually managed.

"He's fine!" Ron said. "He's got Draco helping him! He's not a bloody invalid!"

"Yeah, but you can see he's struggling!"

"Look, Dean…"

"Both of you, shut up!" Draco yelled. "Do you really think I'd let anything happen to him?" he said to Dean.

Dean's mouth worked to say something "I… I… Sorry," he finally managed.

"S'okay," Harry said, with a sigh. He looked suddenly tired.

"You sure you're up for this, mate?" said Ron, his brow furrowed in concern.

"I've just had enough fighting. I really don't want to hear it from my friends."

Draco looked at Harry. "Weasley's right. Severus will ask everyone to go home if he has any inkling you're not feeling well."

"No," Harry said. "No, some of them probably really need this right now. I'm okay. Really." He and Draco stepped past Ron and Dean. Once he was outside, Harry inhaled deeply.

*SP

 **Soth-ince Den, Lizard's Point, Cornwall, July 1997 (31)** **… _9:10 p.m._**

After assuring Draco that Harry would be fine with Dean, Ron convinced the blond boy to stay with him in the shed for a bit. As a laughing Harry and Dean neared the cottage, Harry heard someone say, "Potter." Pansy. She broke away from the Slytherins she'd been chatting with.

"All right, mate?" Dean asked Harry. Harry nodded, and Dean slipped away to find Ginny.

"Pansy." Harry smiled at her. "Where's your other half?"

"After one look at that wild garden of yours, I lost him," she said, shaking her head and pouting a little. "I imagine he's lurking round the other side of it at this very moment. I've been socializing alone since we arrived, and he's been out here. I ask you, how can he possibly prefer weeds over me?"

Harry chuckled. Pansy knew better, but as a Slytherin, having her ego stroked never got old. "Neville's no idiot."

"Aren't you a charmer?" Pansy smiled and took Harry's hand. "I don't know that Granger deserves you."

Hermione, only steps away, looked over her shoulder at them and cleared her throat.

"Oh, Hermione," Pansy said. "I didn't see you there."

Harry tensed and swallowed when Hermione's gaze sharpened, and her lips quirked up into a small smile. Hermione had once told him that she was cordial to Pansy for Neville's sake. For reasons she couldn't fully explain, she didn't quite trust the Slytherin. However, Harry liked her well enough. It seemed to him that her old ghastly attitude faded the more time she spent in mixed company, and she seemed to make Neville as happy as Neville made her, so Harry didn't see the problem.

"It's quite all right," Hermione said. "That's precisely why one should use a light touch when lengthening and darkening one's lashes."

Harry felt Pansy tense up as someone standing nearby inhaled sharply and said, "Oooohhh."

"Well, _that_ was uncalled for," Pansy said, sounding like her old self.

Hermione's eyebrow went up. "Like flirting with my boyfriend?"

"I was…" Pansy let go of Harry's arm. "I was _not_ flirting!"

"Oh, Merlin," said Neville, coming to stand between the two witches.

Pansy scowled at him. "Don't take that tone with me!"

Neville held out his hand. "Pansy…"

"No! You're being ridiculous!"

Neville took her elbow. "Please?"

To Harry, Pansy seemed weirdly upset, nothing like the girl who had been teasing him only moments before. Eventually, Pansy took Neville's hand, her bottom lip quivering.

"Sorry, mate," Neville whispered as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "She's having a time of it."

Harry shook his head. "No worries."

"Neville…" Pansy said. She sounded on the verge of tears.

"Come on, love," Neville said softly.

Harry caught Hermione's eye. She was frowning, her expression confused and guilty. "Neville?" she said, before he and Pansy got too far away.

Neville gave her a small smile. "I thought it might do her some good to be around everyone."

"Why?" Harry said.

"Her family's house-elf, they found her bound and gagged…dead, miles from Parkinson House."

Hermione frowned. "They allowed her out of the house?"

"No," Neville said. "A week ago, they all spent the afternoon in Hogsmeade. When they got back home, dinner wasn't ready, and Fimpey ignored their calls. A day later, a neighbor found her in a field."

"No," Hermione said. "Oh, Pansy… I'm so sorry."

"When I was a child, Fimpey always added the perfect splash of milk to my tea when we had tea p-parties in my r-rooms." She began to cry. Neville kissed the top of her head and whispered something to her.

"They've no idea what happened?" Harry said to him. "How she got out?"

Neville shook his head. "Nothing in the house was touched. They'd put up a security charm before leaving." Neville snorted softly. "Sounds cliché, but it's a mystery."

"No, there must be an explanation," said Hermione. "The spell that binds house-elves to their families' homes is unbreakable, unless you give them an item of clothing or the family evicts them."

Neville shrugged. "Like I said, mystery."

"Is the DMLE investigating?" Harry said.

"A couple of Aurors came out, had a look round the area where she was found."

"What's with the serious faces?" Ron asked.

Draco frowned. "Pansy?"

"I'm taking her inside," said Neville.

"Use my room," said Draco, leading them to the back door and holding it open for them. "What the hell is going on?" He asked Harry when he returned. "I've _never_ seen her cry."

"Her family's house-elf died," said Harry.

"She was murdered," Hermione said, pitching her voice low as a laughing quartet of Ravenclaws strolled past.

"What?" Ron nearly shouted, attracting glances from everyone standing nearby.

Hermione frowned at him and motioned for them to follow her to the tents out back.

Once they were all behind the boys' tent, Harry said, "About a week ago, the Parkinsons went out. When they got back, their house-elf was missing."

"Fimpey would never leave them," said Draco.

"Well, if they treated her like most families treat their house-elves…" Hermione began.

"Hermione," said Ron, a warning tone in his voice.

"No," said Draco, "she's right, but the Parkinsons aren't typical in that way—Pansy and her mother, at least."

"So they couldn't possibly have said or done something that made it so she could leave?" said Ron.

"No," Draco said. He looked at Harry. Reading the expression on the Gryffindor's face, he said, "It might not mean anything, though."

"Or it might," Harry said quietly.

Ron dragged his hands through his hair. "You know, I would love it if we could have just one, maybe two days where we didn't have to see something like a poor, dead house-elf as anything other than a poor, dead house-elf."

"What about a house-elf?" said Ginny as she and Dean joined them.

Ron shook his head.

"Don't give me that," Ginny said. "What's going on? Why are you all so pruney-looking?"

"Pansy's house-elf is…gone," said Hermione.

"And, what?" said Ginny. "She's gutted that she'll have to wash her own dirty knickers now?"

Ron groaned. "Ginny…"

Draco narrowed his eyes at the girl. "Somehow Fimpey got out of the house or was taken from it."

"Someone killed her," Harry said.

"Oh, no," said Ginny, squeezing Dean's arm.

"Why?" Dean said.

"No idea," said Ron.

Dean looked at Harry. "Think it means something?"

Harry dragged his shoulders up and down in a tired shrug.

"What are you all doing back here?" said Tracey, accompanied by Marcus. It was as if his arm was glued to her waist.

"Everyone's shifting over to the paddock," he said. "Cake."

"Yeah?" Harry said. "Cheers, Marcus."

Marcus nodded, then his heavy brow knitted in a frown as he took in the expressions on their faces. "Everything all right?"

"Oh, yeah," said Ron, taking Draco's hand. "Everything's just tickety boo."

*SP


End file.
